Gathering Rosebuds
by IrishRoseSerenade
Summary: Members of the Order of the Phoenix are being called back to counter Voldemort's return, but not everyone is happy about it. Takes place during OOTP. AU. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

So, this is my first attempt at this whole fanfic thing. Please review. I hope you like it . . . but if you don't, be honest. Will accept all criticism!

Disclaimer: This world is not mine, but the characters you don't recognize, obviously, are.

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**Chapter 1: Another Letter**

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The wind was blowing again. Dust was twirling in miniature devils around the sparse vegetation. Eleanor grimaced and pushed her bandana out of her eyes with her forearm. The sweat slowly developing on her forehead for the past hour had made the cloth's journey easy and somewhat adventurous. Eleanor had noticed Akban getting distracted by her eyebrows dancing, trying to prevent complete blindness. It was only her own stubbornness that had prevented her from putting the delicate urn down and using her hands.

She was stubborn. She knew it, but she was 35 and not about to change anytime soon.

"Do you think we're going to have a sandstorm?" she asked Akban, who was dusting off shards of pottery.

He opened his canteen and poured a stream onto the rock at the side of the table. He squinted at it before drawing his wand. After prodding the swiftly evaporating liquid, he smiled. "We are safe today, Miss Elle." His accent had a hint of English to it. He had studied at Hogwarts for a time.

Eleanor raised her eyebrow at him.

He grinned.

Knowing she couldn't do anything about his cheek, she turned back to the fragile pot on the work table. Akban was the only man in the entire encampment who dared to be cheeky with her; her temper had been more than established when the Archie McCallan's Iranian apprentice over at the Magical Urns tent whistled at her. The boy was still only talked about in hushed tones, though it had been fourteen months.

Eleanor couldn't help smiling to herself as she remembered the awe in the young girls' eyes as the boy limped off, hiding his tears behind an old copy of the Daily Prophet. (Only Archie would have a British paper delivered to him on a dig in Oman.)

Eleanor turned over the urn she was holding. There were some strange markings on the base. "Give me your canteen," she barked at Akban.

"Use your own canteen," he responded.

"Akban."

He handed it over. Eleanor had something in her sights, and he had learned through trial and great error that when she spoke like _that_, she meant it.

She poured a few drops onto the piece. The dust was quickly washed away.

"I don't see why you don't just use your wand, Miss."

"Muggle techniques work just as well," Eleanor muttered.

The characters on the bottom of the urn were even more unexpected than she had originally thought. They were French!

"I knew I should have studied another language," she grumbled, clapping her wide-brimmed hat onto her head. She held the artifact close to her stomach and set off against the wind.

"Where are you going?" called Akban.

She ignored him. He should know better than to expect an answer. Besides, she was bracing herself for the task ahead: Talking to Archie was a daunting task. Not because she was afraid of him, as Akban had unwisely teased her about once. She was not afraid of him. Not. He was merely . . . well . . . very Archie.

Women called to her as she wound her way through the tents and workstations. She smiled at them but didn't stop to chat. The men didn't even bother. They knew she would talk to them only when she had something to say. Except for Eugene, but everyone talked to him. He was the only reason some of the students stayed on the dig since Eleanor came.

If they aren't willing to work hard, they shouldn't be digging in sand in the middle of the desert anyway. Eleanor smiled grimly to herself. It wasn't as if magic made their lives that much easier. Sure, real meals and cold water could do wonders, but when it came down to it, wizard archeology and Muggle archeology had a lot in common. Most of the artifacts the dig uncovered were too delicate to clean with magic.

Eleanor approached a large, chartreuse tent in the center of the camp. A brown hawk flew up from behind the tent, flapping to gain altitude against the wind. She could hear Archie dictating to his secretary before she was near enough to see him through the shadowed doorway.

"Yes, then add the bit about the new boy from Hogwarts. They're always eager to hear news of the home-spun lads, you know."

Eleanor hesitated. Wizard culture was supposed to trump Muggle origins, but she couldn't help but hear her mother's Cork Irish tones warning her against "those British prigs." Still, Archie meant well, even if he did have more hot air in him than an excited 5-year-old with a large supply of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.

But he did mean well.

Eleanor took a deep breath and pushed her way into the tent. Those bloody flaps were always hanging just a hair too low. The interior of the tent was very comfortable, but not surprising. Again, a benefit of having magic in the desert. It was also about 30 degrees cooler than it was outside. Archie liked to feel the gentle chill of England.

Richly colored rugs decorated the floor from canvas wall to canvas wall. The armchairs were plush and ornate. Small, mahogany desks were set up on one side of the tent; a large, ornate one on the opposite side. The small ones were used by interns, apprentices, and students to do their paper work. Archie _believed_ in paperwork.

Archie looked up at her and smiled heartily. "Ellie, dear."

She winced. She was not a child!

"Archie, hello. How's it going today?"

"Oh, the usual." He shuffled papers around on his desk in an attempt to illustrate his industriousness. "I just sent off a weekly report to the Ministry. They're very interested in what you've been working on, you know."

Eleanor genuinely started. "Really? Why?" She was suspicious. The Ministry was in complete disarray at the moment. Why would they be interested in Western wizards in the Middle East?

"Oh, yes, they want to know if you've found any spells or anything. You know bureaucrats." He gave her a knowing wink, conveniently forgetting that he was exactly that: a bureaucrat.

"Well, I don't know about spells, but I do have something I need you to look at." She held the urn out to him. "It's French."

He started. "A French urn? Merlin's beard!"

Eleanor shook her head. "Not a French urn. An Arabic urn with French writings on it."

Archie snapped his glasses down from the top of his head and eagerly took the urn. He turned to his desk and Conjured a microscope of sorts. Reading it, he began muttered. "Old French . . . possibly from as early as 200 BC . . . of course, we don't really use BC . . . but, hmm, that's interesting . . ."

Eleanor turned out. Archie would let her know when he had something concrete. She gazed over the documents piling up on the end of Archie's desk. Next to the large pile sat a smaller pile: letters.

"Is this post from today, Arch?" she asked.

". . . oh, my, it really is French . . . poetry, it seems . . . what? Oh, yes. Just arrived."

Eleanor thumbed through the thick parchment envelopes. One was for her.

She glanced at Archie, but he was completely immersed in his mumblings. She flipped the letter over in her hand. It was from Remus.

Damn.

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TBC

Please remember to review. AND BE HONEST. Sweet. Okay. Bye.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not mine . . . Hopefully you all like this second chapter. Tell me what you think, please.

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**Chapter 2: Pardon My French**

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So Remus was trying again. Eleanor couldn't say that she was surprised. Remus was never one to give up easily. She considered hoping that he was just dropping her a line. Maybe he was vacationing in Yemen . . . a consideration of a hope. She smirked dryly to herself, knowing that even the thought of a hope was too foolish to be entertained.

"Fool man," she muttered, earning herself a sympathetic stare from Archie's thin-lipped secretary, Jennine. Eleanor gave her a tight smile in return. Though it was far from friendly, the smile seemed to satisfy Jennine, and she turned back to her work. Eleanor's smile twisted and her eyes rolled. Her patience had soured faster than a cup of milk left in the desert sun..

Eleanor glanced up at Archie, but he was intently studying the French verse inscribed on the base of the urn. She estimated that he would be busy with it for a good seven minutes before he shared his thoughts with her. (Archie was a man of routine.)

She slid her thumb under the envelope flap and broke the shapeless seal. She waited a minute to ensure that neither of the tent's other occupants noticed her distraction. She was, after all, supposed to be interested in the urn—her job. But the French verse, as exciting as it was three minutes ago, paled as her heart took on a life of its own (which is terrifying to the most level-headed people at the best of times, and Eleanor was neither level-headed nor at the best of times).

She quietly pulled the letter out, and, with one more glance to make sure Archie was still preoccupied, she unfolded it. A nostalgic smile stole across her face—Remus's handwriting hadn't changed—but she chased it away with a suspicious scowl.

_Dear Eleanor,_

_I won't waste time with pleasantries if your responses to my last two letters are any judge. (Don't worry. I'm sure your letters merely flew off course. I'm equally sure this one will arrive without incident.)_

Eleanor's cheeks burned.

_I know you're not happy with me. I think I heard your snarl over here in England when my last letter arrived, but I can't imagine why it distressed you so much. He's innocent._

Eleanor's hand instinctively closed around the letter, crumpling it like an accordion. Her eyes began to burn, and it had nothing to do with the dry desert heat. Anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach, just below her heart, and cold fear fought with it for supremacy. The prospect that he . . . that they . . . cursed man!

"Ellie."

Eleanor jumped, cracking her hand on the corner of the desk. "Bloody hell!" she yelled. She shook it out a few times, using the distraction to stuff the heinous letter and its damned envelope into her pocket. ". . . pardon my French . . . heh." Oh, God. She was gibbering.

Archie was staring at her. Jennine was pursing her lips disapprovingly. If she had long nails, she would have clicked them on the surface of her desk. Thankfully, long, fake nails were so out of place in the desert, even Jennine contented herself with short, natural ones.

"Sorry," Eleanor mumbled in Jennine's general direction before shuffling next to Archie. She cleared her throat. "So, what does it say?"

Archie gave Jennine a look, spurring her to begin scratching furiously with her quill. He turned back to Eleanor. "Are you all right, m'dear?"

"Yes. It's just a flesh wound," she said bracingly, shooting him a warm smile. She hoped it was warm. In her present mood, it could have been akin to dropping the poor man in a pot of boiling toad pus, and she wouldn't have known the difference. It seemed to appease him, though. He turned back to the urn without further comment.

"You'll never guess what it says."

That's why I asked you, she screamed in her head, and immediately stuffed her mental mouth full of cotton. Get a grip on yourself! she chastised herself.

Instead, she contented herself with a calm, "Tell me it's important."

"Oh, it's wonderful," he chuckled, instantly deterred from further questions. "Get my wand."

She congratulated herself on keeping her composure as she passed him the short, thick, oak wand. He proceeded to draw the French words in the air; the letters glittered gold.

"Now, here you can see that this is an old version of French," he began, highlighting a few vowels and endings. His eyes glinted with delight. "What's truly intriguing is the choice of words."

Eleanor tried to pay attention as he continued to explain how the word for "magic" here had not only practical meaning but also literary meaning, as in Aramaic scrolls. Any other day, his explanation would have fascinated her, but today she just wanted a double shot of firewhiskey and her bed. Sirius and Remus . . . damn them both!

"Archie," she interrupted.

"—the pot is definitely of Aramaic design—sorry?"

"Could we finish this up tomorrow? I think I've had too much sun," she hastened to explain as she held her hand out for the urn.

"Oh, yes. So sorry. I should have noticed. Of course we finish this up tomorrow, m'dear." He gave her a firm grin . . . but ignored her outstretched hand.

"Archie . . ."

He beamed at her. "Yes?"

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow at the urn. He followed her eye line and seemed surprised to see the urn still resting on the table. "Oh, of course. The urn. Ahem." He shifted uncomfortably, and when he spoke again, his eyes were firmly fixed on Eleanor's knees. "I don't suppose I could hang onto it until tomorrow? I'm not sure I have the translation _exactly_ right. Not sure at all. In fact, that word might not mean 'magic' at all. My old French is rusty, you see, and we wouldn't want to get all excited about nothing, would we? No, we would not. So, if you don't mind—"

Eleanor held up her hand, cutting Archie off. "Keep it." Any other day, she would have demanded the urn back—she liked to know where her artifacts were. Today, however . . . well, today an old pot with some random French scribbled on the bottom was the least of her worries.

She turned her back on Archie's assurances that the urn would be safe, that he would have the translation tomorrow, that he would keep it in his tent, sleep with it next to his pillow, and that he would never let it out of his sight. She heard herself muttering something in reply as she walked out of the tent.

The letter was burning a hole in her pocket hotter than the unobstructed sun overhead. The people milling around outside called their greetings to her. She smiled but walked directly back to her encampment. She didn't even notice the wind this time.

Akban looked up when she pushed her way past the work table. "What does it say?"

Eleanor jumped. Her hand went to the letter in her pocket. She was shocked. How did he know? Play it cool. "Nothing. French. What?"

Akban smiled hesitantly. "The urn, Miss?"

Eleanor could have kicked herself. The bloody urn, of course. What was with everyone's obsession with that thing? "Oh, Master McCallan is keeping it overnight to perfect the translation, but he's very excited, so I think it will turn out to be a valuable find."

Akban's eyes widened with surprise, but he wisely held his tongue. Eleanor took advantage of his silence and ducked into her tent, firmly fastening the flap behind her. The air was thick and stifling, but she didn't bother to open one of the windows. As with the other tents scattered throughout the site, the interior of her tent was large and house-like, allowing her the luxury of opening a window if the need called for it.

This time the need's call was drowned by the screaming presence of Remus's letter.

Eleanor forced herself sit down at her desk before pulling the crumpled papers out of her pocket. She took a deep breath. And then another, for luck.

She found her spot in the missive easily. It was hard to miss blotted letters in "innocent."

_I have never lied to you. Well, not "never." That one about the werewolf thing was for your own good. And always telling you that Professor Slughorn's essays were due three days early was harmless—you're a horrible procrastinator. But other than that, I have never lied to you._

_Sadly, nostalgic stories aren't getting me any closer to my point. I'm not writing about Sirius again; don't worry. (Though now that I've mentioned him, I will take the opportunity to remind you that Sirius is innocent. It was Peter all along, swayed by the promise of power and the fear of death. I am ashamed that I believed any differently.)_

Eleanor didn't know whether her eyes were welling up out of anger or remorse. She didn't know what she believed. If she didn't know better, she would say she felt guilty . . . but she knew. Oh, she knew. He hadn't tried to deny it.

She brushed away her own thoughts—thoughts that shouldn't even be entertained—and glumly returned to the letter. If Remus wasn't writing another plea on Sirius's behalf, why was he writing?

_The Order of the Phoenix has reorganized. Our worst fear has been realized; he's back. I won't include details here, only that Dumbledore is gathering who he can, but the wizarding community is divided against itself. Fudge is too afraid of the truth to accept it, and many are finding his web of dreams preferable to our reality of terror._

_We need you more than the pots do. Come home._

_Always,_

_Remus_

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TBC...

What do you think?


	3. Chapter 3

First off, thank you to all of you who reviewed! I really appreciate it, and it's on the strength of your reviews that I am posting this next chapter. Now, I'm going to take this opportunity to clear up a few things.

So, this fic takes place at the beginning of OOTP and has a slight AU element (I think I got that FF jargon right).

Okay, so this is the last chapter in the Middle East. Next time, Eleanor will be in London, and you might recognize some familiar characters . . . which are not mine, but I love them anyway. (That's my disclaimer, by the way.)

I know, this exposition has been a little different and may have been frustrating, but I think it's important.

Anyway, review! I am insecure and needy and crave approval . . . just kidding. I just want to know if people like this and if I should keep writing it. Review! Anonymous reviews are loved as much as identified ones! Thank you!

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**Chapter 3: Uphill All the Way**

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Eleanor leaned one more time on the trunk, pushing the lid down, while her other hand fumbled with the latch. Why did she have to bring so many clothes on an expedition in the _desert_? She hadn't even worn over half of the robes in months. Robes were too thick and hot to wear when the sun seemed to have a personal grudge against your survival. Only traditionalists like Archie even bothered with them out here. Most of the dig's inhabitants contented themselves with shorts and t-shirts, just like the Muggle archeology community.

The latch snapped into place under Eleanor's fingers. Finally.

She stood and looked around the tent. She nodded with satisfaction. Everything she needed was already loaded on the cart outside, ready to haul up the hill to the Portkey.

"Akban," she called. The young man stuck his head through the flaps.

"Another one?!"

She smiled. "And then you won't have to deal with me anymore."

He scowled playfully. "At least I won't have to deal with your bloody trunks."

As he made his way over to the trunk, she pushed past him and through the flaps. Archie was supposed to be waiting outside to sign off on her emergency transport. She looked around for him but only saw interns. She clicked her tongue in frustration. Bloody man. Where was he?

Akban bumped into her from behind and dropped the trunk on his foot, cursing. "Miss, all due respect, but will you get the hell out of the way?"

Eleanor stepped aside, but bit back her apology. Instead she asked, "Where's Master McCallan?"

"Not here," huffed Akban, drawing his wand to Levitate the trunk onto the precarious pile in the cart.

Eleanor turned back to glare at Archie's distant tent. He was _seriously _keeping her waiting? She shook her head. She didn't have time to wait. Remus had said "urgent," and he was cautious by nature . . . she needed to leave now.

"Start bringing the cart up," she ordered—or possibly demanded. "I'll meet you there."

She took off in the direction of Archie's tent. The sun was beginning to drop toward the horizon, but it was still too early for him to have retired to his tent for the evening. She veered slightly, moving toward his office where she had been earlier that day.

It took her longer to get there this time. It seemed word of her imminent departure had spread like wildfire. Friends accosted her, asking why she was going, when she was coming back, and where she was going. Guilt made a deadly mix with anger in her gut as she brushed them off with vague answers and promises to explain in a letter.

She didn't bother hesitating this time but immediately ducked under the tent flap into the open interior. "Archie!" she yelled.

She heard a snort from one of the couches to her left suggesting Archie's presence. Jennine's head snapped up from her pile of paperwork at the desk a little further down. The pile was larger than it had been a few hours ago, but the prominent position of the legendary urn on her desk suggested that Archie was doing everything by-the-book on this one. But the fascination of the urn held no ground when Jennine was faced with the battle between outrage and sheer shock at Eleanor's entrance. She seemed to settle on outraged shock. "Miss Mahan, I have to ask you to _be quiet_!" she hissed.

Eleanor held up a threatening finger, but couldn't think of anything to say, so she just shook it menacingly. Jennine's eyes widened. Eleanor held steady. Once Jennine had been intimidated into silence, Eleanor turned her attention back to the snoring lump on the couch.

"Archie, get up!" she yelled, throwing one of the leather-bound volumes from the nearest desk at his head. She winced as it hit his ankle. Well, she had never claimed to be good at sports.

Still, the objective was achieved. Archie snorted his way back to consciousness. "What the bloody hell is going on?" he roared.

Eleanor popped her hands onto her hips. "Don't curse at me," she said with deathly calm.

Archie blinked the sleep out of his eyes and articulately demanded, "Ellie, what the damn something or other do you want?"

"You need to sign off on my emergency Portkey transport, remember?" Be civil. Honey gets you more than hurting does. (Was that the saying? She could never get those trite phrases straight.)

Archie glared at her. The surprise of seeing him out of his usual sunny appearance was shocking. Luckily, Eleanor had years of practice in schooling her emotions, so she reined in her shock and allowed her anger to continue as a shield against Archie's attack. "Just Apparate."

"With two hundred pounds of luggage? Are you mad? You get your fat bottom off that couch and up that hill _right now_," she growled, honey be damned.

Archie opened his mouth to retort, but he was cut off by Jennine. "Oh, just do it Archie."

He ignored her. "You can't go Ellie. The urn is more important than we thought. It—"

"I'll take it with me," she countered. "I can study it in London just as well as out here."

He spluttered. "Take it with you? You can't! It's—but—this is _my_ dig!"

"And it's _my_ artifact!"

"It's bloody important, my girl. You don't mess about with bloody important things."

Eleanor stormed over to him and snatched him by the arm, wresting him from his crater in the couch. He quailed at her seething anger. "I am not your girl, I am taking that urn, and you are coming with me."

She snatched the urn from the desk and ushered the urn and its concerned guardian out of the tent. Jennine wisely buried her head once more in paperwork.

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Akban stared as the dig director was herded toward him by Miss Eleanor. The poor man looked terrified, which was perfectly understandable. Eleanor had spent the ten minute walk to the Portkey berating him on how he can't just snatch a woman's artifacts away from her and how he had no right to prevent her from dealing with an emergency at home.

By the time they were within earshot, Archie had been reduced to muttering, "So sorry, Eleanor . . . you're right, as usual, dear . . . typical man . . . mhmmm . . ."

Eleanor steered him straight to the intern on guard. "Tell him," she barked.

Archie drew himself up. "I am giving special dispensation to Eleanor Mahan to use this Portkey and return to London. She has a family emergency."

"It's not a family emergency. It's an international emergency."

"Er . . . right. International and what."

The intern stared at the two of them. "Eh . . . a'ight. Do yer t'ing, miss."

Eleanor wrapped the urn in her coat (it would undoubtedly be cold in London) and gently secured it in her knapsack. She extended a hand to Archie. "Thanks, Archie. It's been a wonderful experience."

He recoiled, afraid she was going to hit him. When he saw her hand waiting, non-threateningly, he smiled and gingerly shook it. "Right-o, Ellie. Come back to us when you've—er—saved the world or what." He chuckled as if he had cracked the funniest joke in the world.

"Archie . . ." Eleanor trailed off. How could she explain? Remus's letter suggested the situation was delicate, so delicacy prevailed, and she bit her tongue. She turned away from him. "Akban," she smiled. He extended his hand, but she ignored it and hugged him. "Thank you for being such a marvelous assistant. And for not calling me Ellie."

"No, Miss. Thank you. I've learned a lot."

She pulled away and smiled again at him. "Don't let Archie stick you with cleaning artifacts."

Archie anxiously interjected, "No, no, I wouldn't. Not if you don't want me to. If you do, of course, just say—"

Eleanor walked over to the twisted, rusting tennis racket. She leaned against the stack of trunks next to it, taking care to ensure she was touching everything she needed.

"Goodbye," she bade her companions, reaching for the Portkey.

"Goodbye," replied Akban.

"Er . . . bye," mumbled the intern.

"Cheerio!" called Archie. "Be careful with that urn!"

. . . and they were gone in a blaze of white light.

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Okay, people. Review! Thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello again. Here's chapter 4. I hope you guys like it, and really . . . . **please **review and tell me if you do or not. Anonymous reviews are accepted.

Harry Potter does not belong to me although some characters in this story are original.

Thanks again!

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**Chapter 4: Home, Sweet Home**

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Eleanor stumbled as her feet hit the ground; she didn't fall until her trunks landed on top of her. Somewhere above her head, she heard a commotion, but her imminent death-by-crushing pushed the noise to the back of her mind.

"Help," she groaned. Portkeys—she hated Portkeys!

"What are you doing?" roared a panicked voice above her. "This is a _restricted_—"

"What the hell was that?" called someone a distance away.

"We don't know what it is!" shouted another voice in return.

"Are you blind?" interjected yet another voice—a woman, this time. "It's a woman being crushed by 15 trunks. Monroe, get out of here!"

"She shouldn't be here. There aren't any transports schedule until Tuesday!" barked the first voice. At least he wasn't roaring. Eleanor's head was hurting almost as much as the rest of her body. Why did she have to bring her library with her?

"What's going on here?" asked another voice.

Other voices clamored to establish that they had nothing to do with this breach of protocol, while still others hoped that someone else knew what was going on. The woman continued to yell above the crowd, telling everyone to get out.

Eleanor groaned again, but this time it had nothing to do with the weight pressing her into the cold, stone floor. This is why she liked the desert: no people. Definitely no bureaucrats, anyway. "Would someone just help me up?" she called, though it came out more like "Wud s'one jus helf m'up?" due to her face being crushed into the very solid floor.

There was an abrupt silence, as if the spectators had forgotten what they were looking at. She half excepted one of them to exclaim, "It speaks!" Instead, though, she heard the woman order the men to move the trunks and "give the poor girl some air!"

The men worked quickly, spurred on by the mystery woman. Eleanor tried to bite back her complaints as they clumsily moved her things about. She was impressed that only two growls and one "Be careful with that!" escaped from her.

Did have to move the trunk crushing my left lung last? Eleanor thought bitterly. Merlin's beard, she hated traveling.

Finally, she was free to stand up and regain her composure. She straightened and looked at the crowd that had gathered around her. The room beyond them was small and bare. The wooden door was standing wide open, with people staring in at the commotion. Eleanor could see snippets of other rooms beyond the crowd; most were filled with desks. There was a chair by the door, next to a table, but other than that, the room was unfurnished.

Directly in front of her was a short, frizzy-haired woman with her hands on her hips. She was looking at Eleanor expectantly. Behind her were about five men who, Eleanor assumed, had moved the trunks. They were all dressed in standard, black robes and had their wands trained on her.

The small witch was the first to speak. "May I ask what the devil you are doing here?" She sounded exactly like Professor McGonagall did when someone was caught out-of-bounds at school. Eleanor stood a little straighter.

And stopped. She was not 16-years-old anymore, and she would be damned if she let some dwarfish woman cow her. "My name is Eleanor Mahan, and I have just transported from the excavation of Thrikinar in Oman. It was an emergency transport, so that is why you weren't expecting me. I have proper signed forms from Archibald McCallan, the dig director, in my bag," she continued, gesturing to the brown knapsack lying among the other trunks. "I am just an archeologist."

The woman looked her up and down, taking in every last grain of sand still imbedded in Eleanor's clothes. "Perhaps," she said. "You'll understand, Ms. Mahan, if we have to check your story out."

Eleanor stifled a sigh. "Of course. I am very sorry for the inconvenience."

The woman gave her a tight smile. "Hawthorne and Magnus will escort you to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where you can wait for a member of the Magical Enforcement Squad to meet with you."

"What?" Eleanor exclaimed. "I'm just an archeologist!"

"We take violations of magical transportation laws very seriously, Ms. Mahan."

The woman turned her back on Eleanor and began to leave. "Get me someone from Apparation," she told a young wizard standing in the hall, "and then get back to work."

The people crowding outside the door disappeared in her wake. Two of the men left in the room stepped up to Eleanor. "Would you come with us, Ms.?"

She looked around at her trunks. One of the men, noticing her concern, reassured her. "Don't worry; someone will take care of your things."

"I need my bag," she said, remembering the urn. If it had been damaged . . . Archie had friends in high places. Eleanor was sure he would never be traced to her body. She didn't wait for permission before diving and snatching it from the pile. She wrenched it open anxiously. Relief flooded through her body as she saw the urn intact. It wasn't even scratched.

She turned back to her escorts. "Right. Let's go."

They led her out of the doorway. She noticed a plaque on the door as she passed it, reading, "Middle Eastern Transport." Other doors read similar things from "Russia" to "Western America" to "Atlantis." Other rooms seemed to be where the work was done. Seas of desks lay beyond most of the doors, with industrious wizards and witches, working from nine to five.

She struck up conversation with the two men, hoping it would make her feel less like a criminal and more like a victim.

"So, which one of you is Hawthorne and which is Magnus?"

The taller man answered. He was in his late thirties with dark hair speckled around the ears with white. "I'm Rupert Hawthorne. This is Albertus Magnus. We both work for the Portkey office."

"And who was that gorgon barking orders at everyone?"

The men gave each other a wary glance. Magnus looked around to make sure the woman referred to wasn't lurking.

"That's Scylla Oraval. She's . . . uh . . . very efficient," mumbled Magnus.

"She's the Assistant Director of the department," added Hawthorne.

They had reached the lifts by now. "Well, she certainly seems to have control," said Eleanor.

They both gave a tight nod and glanced around again. Eleanor found herself fidgeting; the men's fear was contagious. Eleanor was instantly annoyed. She did not like being intimidated; she liked to be the one who was intimidating! No, this feeling of powerlessness did not become her.

The lift opened, and she strode ahead of the two men onto it. The few people in the lift kept staring ahead, ignoring the newcomers. Hawthorne pressed the button for level two. The lift made two stops before opening the gates to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As the cool voice announced the department, Eleanor ducked to avoid the memos that came zipping down from the ceiling. Better than owls, she reminded herself.

She had given a brief stint at the Ministry, identifying magical artifacts, but she left long before the office was disbanded. She hated desk jobs, and filling out paperwork on artifacts rather than finding them was not her idea of a real job. She couldn't repress a stab of sympathy for Jennine and her pile of paperwork back in Oman.

She came back to herself as Magnus and Hawthorne escorted her down the long hallway and into a small chamber. This floor was much more busy and noisy than the Department of Magical Transportation had been. Pictures of dirty looking wizards lined the walls. One wizard, with a large HIGHLY DANGEROUS stamped across his chest, glared down at her. Her stomach flipped. Highly dangerous . . . damn straight.

"In here, Ms. Mahan," directed Hawthorne.

She stepped into the . . interrogation chamber?! There was a small table with two rickety chairs on either side and a single candle sitting in its center. "Is this really necessary, guys?" she asked.

Magnus looked at Hawthorne, and then back at his feet. Hawthorne sighed. "I'm sorry, Ms. Mahan, but we're just following orders. Director Oraval was very specific."

Eleanor took a seat facing the door. "Very well, then. I await my fate." She grinned at them. "Good day, boys. Thank you for escorting me."

Magnus turned red and disappeared back up the corridor. Hawthorne gave her an encouraging nod before following him, closing the door as he went.

Eleanor's smile melted away. Great. The cops were letting her stew, as the Muggles would say. Luckily, she didn't have to wait very long before the door opened once more and a tall, black wizard stepped in. His robes weren't the standard black; they were a violent purple. It would have been comical if not for the sober set of his face.

"Eleanor Mahan," he read from the parchment in his hand. His voice was deep and soothing. Well, it would be soothing if it weren't for Eleanor's situation. There was something else about him, something lurking in his eye. Eleanor wasn't sure what was going on, but she could tell it was more than an emergency transport.

"Yes," she responded firmly. She refused to be cowed again.

"So, tell me what happened this evening," the man continued, taking a seat opposite her.

"Well, Mr. . . ."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," the man responded. "From the Auror Office."

Auror? Careful Eleanor, she told herself. Stay calm. "Mr. Shacklebolt," she said sweetly, "I am an archeologist specializing in cross-cultural interaction in the early development of wizarding societies, and I've spend the last 18 months on a dig in Oman. We've been excavating the lost city of Thrikinar. Have you heard of it? It's this ancient city wizards from the Orient established as a Muggle observation center—"

"Ms. Mahan, could you please continue with the story of why you performed an illegal transport," interrupted Shacklebolt.

"It was not illegal," objected Eleanor. "It was authorized. It was just . . . unexpected."

"Just continue with the story."

"Earlier today, I received an urgent letter from a . . . friend . . . asking me to come back to England as soon as I could. The Portkey was the quickest way. I have all of the formal papers signed by Archibald McCallan. He's the director of the dig and a good friend of the Ministry. And he is authorized by the Ministry to allow exemption from any British Ministry law if the situation demands it."

"I don't doubt it," responded Shaklebolt, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "I am curious, though, as to what sort of emergency demanded immediate transport."

Eleanor stopped. Damn. She should have thought of a cover story before now. From what she had seen, no one seemed concerned about Voldemort's return. The fact that _he_ was still number one on the wizarding Most Wanted list . . . . The Ministry was worse than she thought it was.

Shaklebolt was still waiting for an answer.

"I—I—Well, he was, um, concerned about . . . a certain person from our past who . . . seems to be . . . threatening us . . . again and asked me to come home and . . . help."

Shaklebolt gave her a deep, searching look. "A certain person?" He leaned forward and whispered, "A certain dark wizard?"

Eleanor instinctively looked up at the door. "I don't know what you're talking about." Discretion, she reminded herself.

Shaklebolt maintained his whisper. "Who wrote to you?"

"A friend."

"Who?"

Damn. What could she say? "You wouldn't know him."

He dropped his voice even more. "Did Dumbledore write to you? Lupin? Weasley?"

Eleanor's eyes widened in shock. Who _was_ this Kingsley Shacklebolt?

She opened her mouth to respond, but her own answer was interrupted by a frightened gasp when the door suddenly bashed open.

In its frame stood another man. "Stop this investigation," he demanded.

Shacklebolt twisted around. "What is going on, Mendus?"

"Kingsley?" Mendus stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. "I didn't realize you were conducting this interview. I'm sorry," he stammered.

"Why? What's wrong?" asked Shaklebolt again.

Mendus gestured to Eleanor. "She is a person of interest."

Eleanor opened her mouth to object, but Shaklebolt silenced her with a quick look.

"A person of interest in what?"

Mendus's eyes widened with surprise. "I'm surprised you don't know. In the Sirius Black case."

Eleanor had to hand it to him; Shaklebolt was quick on his feet. "Why else do you think I'm here?"

Mendus stared at him. "But . . . but we didn't know until Records got her file. I mean, this is serious. She was—"

Shaklebolt snatched the file away from Mendus. "I know. But this needs to be kept quiet. I don't believe there is reason to be alarmed, but if you go blabbing your mouth around, there'll be uproar. Tell everyone who knows to keep it quiet. Now get out."

Mendus left as quickly as he had come. Shaklebolt closed the door and sat down again. He flipped through the new papers. Something caught his eye and he looked sharply at Eleanor. "We need to keep you under the radar," he said. He continued on, muttering to himself, "Got to get you out of here . . . and call Dumbledore . . . bet it was Lupin. Was it?"

Eleanor jumped. "You talking to me now?"

"Yes. Was it Lupin?"

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably and countered with a question, "Why did the kid expect you to know the Sirius Black case?"

Shaklebolt stood up. "Because I'm in charge of finding him. At least, I was. Eleanor, I'm trying to help you." He dropped to a whisper again, "I'm in the Order."

"Oh . . ." Eleanor stared at him. So they had recruited. Smart, considering Voldemort would no doubt be doing the same thing. "Fine. Yes, it was Remus."

Shaklebolt nodded. "I knew they were trying reconnect with as many of the old crowd as they could. You're the last one." Abruptly, he looked at the door. "This is no place to talk about it. Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Eleanor nodded. "My sister lives in London. I was going to contact her when I got here."

"Stay with her, but don't mention Remus to anyone. He's not exactly popular. You're here because of a family emergency. It's personal, so don't go into details with anyone. Details get you caught. Now, I'm going to sign off on your case, and I'll find some way of making the Sirius Black connection disappear. Is that all of your luggage?"

Eleanor blushed. What was the big deal about her luggage? "Um, no. The rest of it is still on the second level. I have a few trunks."

Shaklebolt nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

He ushered her out of the room and halfway down the corridor. "Wait here," he instructed, ducking into an office. Five minutes later, he was back. "Let's go."

They took the lift to the second floor, where Shaklebolt quickly put an end to any inquisitiveness about Eleanor, gathered her luggage, and turned in her paperwork from Archie with his own signature added.

She was back in the lift and stepping out into the Atrium before she knew it. Her luggage was floating behind her, kept in check by Shaklebolt. He waved to the security guard who glanced up from his copy of the Daily Universe to give Shaklebolt a head nod in return.

Shaklebolt trundled her into a fireplace which spat her out in a public restroom. She hurried out, hoping to escape notice. Shaklebolt was coming out of the Mens toilet. He led her up to the street and pulled her into an alley.

"Okay, that's enough," snapped Eleanor. "I'm sick of being jostled around. Tell me what's going on, or I am not going anywhere."

"You've been cleared for the transport. Most people prefer not to argue with a senior Auror." He wasn't bragging but merely stating a fact. "I sent an owl to Dumbledore, who's going to arrange things. You're going to go to your sister's and wait until a member of the Order contacts you."

"I am a member of the Order," she replied sullenly.

"An active member," he clarified.

"How am I supposed to get there with . . . a few . . . trunks?"

In response to her question, a sleek, black Cadillac pulled up at the mouth of the alley. "I've arranged for a Ministry car."

Eleanor couldn't find anything to object to, so she just muttered her thanks and walked to the car. The driver got out and arranged her luggage in the surprisingly spacious trunk. On second thought, it wasn't so surprising. She reminded herself that she was back in London, where magic was used far more often than it was in the desert. The driver exchanged a few words with Shaklebolt before returning to the car. As they drove off, Eleanor twisted around to wave goodbye, but he was already gone.

--

TBC!

PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter world.

Please review! I enjoy writing this, but I don't want to keep it up if it's not working, so tell me what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong. Thanks to you who have reviewed! Tell me if this chapter keeps it going! (It's my personal favorite so far.)

Okay, enjoy.

--

**Chapter 5: Gathering Rosebuds**

--

Eleanor hesitated outside of her sister's door. She knew that Mysti wouldn't exactly appreciate an unexpected guest, but hopefully Eleanor would only be staying with her for a few days. She had a good amount put away in her Gringotts vault, especially since the Ministry had been very serious about ancient wizard artifacts when they first hired her, so they had agreed to pay her a generous amount of money. As the years went on, the Ministry developed an out-of-sight-out-of-mind mentality about the expeditions, but the pay kept coming. Not that Eleanor noticed. She jumped from site to site, living on what she needed. She hadn't been back in London in almost twelve years.

And she hadn't seen Mysti in almost five. Luckily, family are the only people that are bound by nature to let you through the door.

The point was, she had enough money to find her own place to live, and she would. She did not want to drag Mysti into this war if she was of a mind with the Ministry: denial. If she didn't believe in Voldemort's return . . . well, it was hard enough on her last time.

Eleanor repressed her big sisterly protectiveness as she pressed the buzzer.

"Coming!" called a familiar voice from the depths of the flat.

Eleanor waited impatiently. From behind the door, she heard Mysti clattering dishes around and shoving things in closets. Mysti never cleaned. Eleanor tried to peer into the peephole. What was going on?

The door was wrenched open. Mysti's jaw dropped, which was pretty hilarious considering she was also out of breath.

"You should take that fish-out-of-water impersonation to the West Side. It'll be a hit," grinned Eleanor.

"Bite me," she responded, grabbing Eleanor into a hug. "What are you doing here, Elle?"

"I'm sorry for dropping by without notice," Eleanor responded, returning her sister's hug. "I had an emergency come up, and I didn't know I'd be in London myself until this morning."

Mysti pulled away and grinned. "Gotta love magic." She looked around outside the door as if only just remembering that the wizarding community was supposed to be secret. Her eyes widened when she saw the trunks.

"Merlin's beard, Elle, did you have to bring the whole desert with you?"

"There aren't that many," Eleanor exclaimed, half defensively and half out of sheer exasperation. What was it, anti-trunk day?

Mysti began pulling the nearest trunk into the flat. "I'm afraid the flat isn't that large, but I'm sure we can find a way to fit it all in." She winked.

Eleanor smiled in spite of herself. Since their parents were Muggles, Eleanor and Mysti both had to adjust to a life of magic when they went to Hogwarts. And while Eleanor did love magic and the wizarding world, she rarely saw the need to use it to make her life more comfortable when she could easily do without flicking her wand around. Mysti, on the other hand, was passionate about magic. Fanatical. She loved using it whenever she could, including, it would seem, to expand the square footage of her apartment.

After all of the trunks were safely inside of Mysti's coat closet (which was the size of the Ministy of Magic's Atrium), Eleanor flopped onto the sofa in the sitting room. "Oh, Myst. I have had the longest day ever."

Mysti was rummaging in the kitchen. "Why?" she called.

"First, I get that letter telling me to get home now. Then I get tackled by my own luggage. _Then _I get berated by a very scary midget. And then I get interrogated!" She threw up her hands. "Since when is it so hard to sneak back into your own country?"

Mysti laughed, pouring magically hot water into two mugs. "Since half the wizarding community went crazy, Elle. Don't you read the papers?" She handed a hot mug of tea to her sister before sitting down at the other end of the sofa.

Eleanor inhaled the beautiful scent of English tea. "Mmmmm . . . what? Oh, come on. Of course I haven't been reading the papers. I've been in the middle of the desert!"

"Well," said Mysti, getting more comfortable. Eleanor could tell this was going to be "scandalous," as Mysti would say, "you know about Harry Potter and how he's being doing all this insanely heroic stuff since he started Hogwarts, right?"

Eleanor tensed at the name, but she didn't want to appear too eager. The last thing she needed right now was for Mysti to remember who her friends were at Hogwarts. "Yeah, I've heard." Heard . . . right. As if she read every single articled published about the kid. He looked like James, but he was more like Lily. Eleanor put a hand to her stomach in an attempt to quell the butterflies. Lily . . .

"You okay?" Mysti asked, noticing the hand.

"Yeah, fine. Just haven't had English tea in a while. No, I'm great. Continue."

"So, it turns out that there might be something wrong with him. Like, in his head. Okay, so, about a month ago was the Triwizard final thingy, and Potter comes out of the maze with another student—dead!—telling everyone that You-Know-Who had returned. Of course, they all _freaked_ out, and Dumbledore actually believed him, and now Dumbledore is trying to take over the Ministry, and all these people have gone underground, and it's just crazy. I think they're going to take action against him, if you know what I mean, which is crazy because do you have any idea how many wizards would follow Dumbledore? I know!"

Eleanor was shocked. Things were _way_ worse than she had thought. I mean, attacking Dumbledore? Did they want their world to be knocked over like a card castle? "What makes you think Harry was lying?" she asked her sister.

Who snorted. Yeah, she was laughing. "Elle, you can't be serious. We would know!"

"Would we?"

"You-Know-Who isn't exactly quiet, hon" Mysti leaned forward and put a sympathetic hand on Eleanor's knee. "You remember last time."

Eleanor jumped up. "Don't talk to me about last time," she snapped and stormed into the kitchen. She dropped her cup into the sink, staring out of the window. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, and the world seemed at peace. Seemed . . . just like last time. The peace was an illusion, even if there weren't any insane dark wizards with god-complexes threatening civilization. She knew in her heart that Remus was right. Voldemort had disappeared fourteen years ago, but he hadn't died. Evil did not die that easily.

Her thoughts roamed to Harry. She wished she could talk to him, reassure him, but she had been instructed to stay away. But now . . . well, now everyone knew who the kid was and where to find him. It couldn't be dangerous now. She wrenched her gaze away from the window. She would petition Dumbledore again once she was back in the Order. First things first.

Mysti came into the kitchen behind her. She fidgeted awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Elle."

Eleanor wiped a tear away from her cheek. "Don't be silly," she responded, turning around. "It was a long time ago. I'm just tired." She gave her sister a half-hearted smile. "The world is pretty crazy, eh?"

Mysti grinned in return, relieved to see her sister smile. "Yeah, but it's not crazy in here. Come on. I'll order Chinese, and you can tell me all of the boring details about your pots!"

"Are you sure? I heard you cleaning up . . . were you expecting company?"

Mysti waved a dismissive hand. "I cancelled. Family is more important."

The rest of the night was relaxing. Eleanor couldn't remember the last time she had chatted and laughed just for the fun of it—she had grown too used to being alone. Mysti listened to Eleanor's excited ranting about the dig and importance of what they were finding. Mysti told her about her fashion line and her goal to revolutionize the wizarding fashion world. Eleanor filled Mysti in on the story of why she was here, which Mysti accepted without question. "Can it be something tragic, like cousin Virgil going insane from hero worship for a Muggle idol—like Victoria Beckham!—and threatening to voodoo her into loving him? I could totally pull that off."

Around ten, Eleanor fell asleep on the couch out of sheer emotional exhaustion even though it was only five in the evening by Omani time.

Around one, she woke up again. She'd heard something. Granted, she was in London now, so it was probably just a drunk knocking over some trash bins on the street below, but she sat silently anyway, listening.

There it was again! It sounded like a soft knock on the . . . window? Very soft. Eleanor checked the time on the clock above the mantel. Who would be outside at this hour?

She stood up and slowly approached the window. Mysti was still snoring in her bedroom, blissfully unaware of the tension growing in her sister's heart. Eleanor was flat against the wall next to the window now, trying to steady her breathing. Even if it was an owl . . . it was still too late for an owl to drop by!

She peered carefully around the corner. On the balcony outside, a dark, cloaked figure was waiting. Her breath caught in her throat. No one knew she was here. No one! Well, that Auror, Shaklebolt, but he didn't have Mysti's address. It didn't even occur to Eleanor that Shaklebolt worked at the Ministry and could easily obtain it. As far as Eleanor was concerned, no one should be knocking on the balcony window at one in the morning.

As she was panicking over what to do next, the figure raised its wand to the window latch and muttered something. The window flew open. Eleanor flinched at the sound. Her hand frantically groped the table behind her, searching for a weapon. Aha! She grabbed something heavy and raised it above her head.

The figure ducked through the window silently. Eleanor stepped back . . . and tripped over the rug, screeching as she fell down, flat on her back. The figure whirled around and was standing over her in a second.

It reached a hand down to her. She stared at it, still paralyzed on the floor. The figure sighed.

"Just take it, Eleanor."

She grasped its hand, allowing it to pull her up. She knew that voice. The fear evaporated in a flash, replaced by annoyance. She snatched the figure's hood down and flipped the light on.

"Remus!" she snarled. "What the hell was that?!" Her voice squeaked at the end, and she lowered it to a whisper. "You had me scared to death!"

Remus looked surprised at her reaction. "I was sent to find you. On Order business."

"And the door didn't cross your mind?" she sighed, her anger ebbing. She could never stay angry at Remus. No one could. Lily used to say that he was more puppy than man.

"It's the middle of the night. Callers are remembered in a neighborhood like this." He glanced at the weapon in her hand. "A photo frame? Eleanor . . . really. Were you going to, reminisce me to death?"

Eleanor flushed. She didn't know it was a photo frame when she grabbed it! "It is gilded," she said defensively, letting it drop.

He chuckled. "So it is."

She sniffed. "You wouldn't happen to have a _reason_ for breaking into my sister's apartment at this hour, would you?"

"Order business, Eleanor! That's why you came back, isn't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"But what? You're in enough trouble as it is."

"What? Trouble? I'm not in trouble. You're in trouble," she countered. "No one believes you!"

Remus sighed heavily. "Fudge is controlling everything. But I wouldn't say no one. We've recruited, as you well know."

Eleanor was not to be dissuaded. "Even people like Mysti are reluctant to believe. People who experienced the destruction first-hand! What of that?"

Remus looked around. "Look, Eleanor. We are in a tight spot, but we have a head start. And we know what he wants."

"What?" Eleanor asked.

"We can't talk here. We have to get back to headquarters."

"Where is it?"

Remus dug out a thin slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it cautiously. No turning back now. She opened it. In spiky writing were the words: "The Order of the Pheonix can be found at twelve Grimauld Place, London."

She snatched her wand from the table by the couch and burned the paper, remembering Order protocol—a miracle considering her head was about to explode. "Thank you for coming Remus, but I'm not going." She turned her back on him and walked around the table to the sofa. "Turn the light off as you go."

"Wha—?" Remus followed her. "You're messing, right? What's wrong this time? You're crazy!" he exclaimed, visibly frustrated.

"I'm not crazy; _you're_ crazy. That's _his_ house, as you well know, and I do not, under no circumstances, even when hell freezes over, ever want to see him again."

Remus gave another sigh. Eleanor glanced back at him and noticed for the first time how tired he looked. He had always been thin, but now he looked emaciated. He closer resembled the skeletons unearthed at the dig than he did a living, breathing wizard.

"Are you okay, Remus?" she asked, suddenly concerned about more than her sordid past.

"Yes. Just a little tired. None of us have had much sleep lately. _None_ of us," he emphasized.

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm still not going. I can do Order work from the outside."

"Sit down for a minute," instructed Remus as he joined her by the sofa. They both sat. "Remember that old book of Muggle poetry you used to carry around at school? Well, I listened to your annoying recitations. 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," he recited, "Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying.'"

"Robert Herrick. So?"

"So, Eleanor, you need to let it go." He spoke evenly, driving every word home. Her armored anger was slowly pierced with each rational word. "We don't have time to hate people anymore. Sirius is the flower. Pick him."

"Remus," Eleanor groaned, "you make it sound so dramatic!"

He barked a laughed. "_I_ make it sound dramatic? Have you even heard yourself?"

"Hey!" she protested, but she was laughing too. Remus had an infectious laugh, and he was right. She was being a little dramatic. A little, mind you.

"It's not just Lily and James, you know. More was happening before then. Things aren't going to be the way they were," warned Eleanor.

"I would never expect them to be," replied Remus lightly. He hesitated. "Do you believe he's innocent?"

Eleanor sighed. She had thought a lot about it—more than a lot. She had obsessed over it, retracing every detail she could remember from that night. Was Sirius innocent? Remus said he was, and she believed him . . . a little. She didn't want to believe him. It was easier to continue hating him than it was to forgive, and it was a hell of a lot worse if he hadn't committed a crime in the first place.

"He admitted it, you know," she bit out between her clenched teeth. "Admitted it to my face."

Remus thought for a minute before responding slowly, "He does blame himself, even now, fourteen years later."

"He would," Eleanor replied before she could stop herself.

Remus laughed. "Yes, he would."

Eleanor sat unmoved, hoping desperately that Remus would just give up. He didn't.

"Look, I know the two of you had problems before all of this happened, but you should give him the benefit of the doubt. It was fourteen years ago," he said hurriedly before she could interrupt, "and I doubt you ever gave him a chance to explain."

Eleanor couldn't remember if she had. She had been so angry, she wouldn't be surprised if she had just attacked him and then left him in a smoldering pile of rubble. But after what he did . . . He totally deserved it. Say he didn't sell Lily and James out to Voldemort . . . fine, she believed. But he still wasn't off the hook.

Remus continued in the silence. "You know, Sirius doesn't sit around moping about the past. I guess he finally learned to _let go_ and _grow up_."

Eleanor glared at him. "Sirius will never grow up."

Remus smiled hopefully. "But will you?"

Damn him. Why did he have to puncture her self-righteous bubble? She was happy in the throes of her angst. Remus noticed her shifting uncomfortably.

"I think you can do this."

"Okay," she said. Her heart screamed in protest. Her mind told it to shut up. Their argument continued, and Eleanor ignored them both. This was for the greater good, she said wryly to herself. They need everyone they can get. I can do this.

"Does this mean you're coming?" he asked hopefully, pushing himself off the sofa.

Eleanor took a deep breath. "I'll come."

--

"I can't believe I'm here," muttered Eleanor, slouching behind Remus up to the dark house.

"Hey, you agreed," he reminded her as he unlocked the door. "I didn't force you."

"I said I'd come, not that I'd be happy about it," she objected. He began to push the door open. Panic rose like a balloon in her chest, and she grabbed his arm. "Wait." He turned to face her. "Are you sure I can do this, Remus?" she asked in a small voice.

He smiled at her and pulled her into a hug. "Yes, I'm sure. We're all on the same side now. It's going to be fine." He held her a moment longer before pulling away. "You okay?"

She nodded, her throat too tight for speech. Oh no. It was really happening. She was going to see Sirius for the first time in . . . a long time; she didn't want to admit that she'd been keeping count.

Remus led her down a dark hallway lined with mounted heads of house elves. It was creepy, the way they seemed to be sleeping with their heads stuck through the wall. Curtains hid a large, snoring portrait, and Eleanor didn't want to know what lurked behind it. The whole house reminded her of a Muggle Halloween house of horrors. It was houses like this, she thought fiercely, that reinforced useless stereotypes, pigeon-holing the magical community. They climbed down a staircase toward the only real light Eleanor had seen in the house so far. It was a kitchen. Eleanor cowered away from the light. She was pathetic, and she knew it, but she couldn't seem to force her feet forward. Suddenly she was twenty-one again, scared and alone.

"Remus," someone said—a motherly voice—"you're back. We were beginning to worry."

"No need to worry, Molly. We were just catching up."

"We?" inquired a boy's voice. No, not a boy. Probably a teenager.

Remus reappeared in the doorway and grabbed Eleanor's arm, pulling her into the kitchen; her eyes remained fixed on the floor. "We. This is Eleanor Mahan, our last missing member of the Order. Eleanor, you know Molly and Arthur. These are some of their children, Fred—"

He was cut off by a chair crashing to the ground. Eleanor's eyes darted up from the floor and fastened immediately on the white, shocked face across the room. His face was surrounded by long, black hair, and his robes were old and faded, but she would have recognized him anywhere. Her heart began to pound painfully in her chest. This was a bad idea. She wanted to squirm away from Remus's grip and run back to her beloved, simple desert, but her body remained frozen in her spot.

"Sirius," chastised Molly.

Sirius Black ignored Molly, staring fixedly at Eleanor. His mouth worked for a minute, as if trying to force something unpleasant out. Eleanor stayed firmly silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of speaking first. Finally, he cracked.

"What the bloody hell is she doing here?!"

--

TBC...

Since this is my favorite chapter so far . . . review! Please! I am flinging myself to your mercy . . . bestow your judgment.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry Potter and its characters do not belong to me although I kinda wish Sirius Black did.

Thank you so much to SmirkyRaven and Singedshadows for your reviews! I really appreciate the feedback, and if you guys (any of you, not just these two) want to read anything specific (more Fred/George, etc.), let me know. I'll see what I can do as long as it doesn't interfere with my vision! Dramatic clutching of hand to chest.

On a different note, this was a really difficult chapter for me to write. I'm trying a different perspective, and I hope it works.

Again, I beg, I plead, I implore: review!

And enjoy, of course.

--

**Chapter 6: A Series of Protestations**

--

There was a beat of silence before the kitchen erupted into chaos.

"Sirius, please!" shrieked Molly, still standing by the stove with a teapot in her hand.

Arthur pointed at Fred, George, and Ginny, yelled, "Okay, kids, I think it's time for bed!"

The children exploded into a series of protestations.

"You're joking!"

"But it's just getting interesting!"

"Me 'n Fred are of age! You can't make us leave!"

"Nothing ever happens around here!"

"I'm not tired."

"We'll be able to hear it all from upstairs anyway!"

Molly rounded on her unfortunate offspring. "Listen to your father! If I hear one more word from you, you'll be up with the sun scrubbing floors the Muggle way! Get up stairs!"

Eleanor had rounded on Remus. "He didn't _know_?!"

Remus's panicked yell rose over the din. "He knew! I promise! We discussed it during a meeting weeks ago!"

Sirius made his way to the door and grabbed Remus by the collar with one hand. "What is she doing here?" he demanded again.

"I'm right here!" Eleanor protested.

Sirius kept his gaze firmly on Remus. What had he been _thinking_?

"We discussed it weeks ago," reminded Remus. "We were going through the list—"

"I said no!" yelled Sirius.

"_You_—?" Eleanor squawked, only to be interrupted by Remus.

"It wasn't your decision, Sirius. Dumbledore and I—"

"Dumbledore and you are a pair of manipulating bastards," snarled Sirius.

"You're one to talk," snapped Eleanor.

Sirius rounded on her. "Keep out of this, Elle!"

She swelled with fury. "Do _not_ call me 'Elle.'"

Sirius ignored her, focusing his attention back on Remus. He had waited fourteen years to deal with her; he could wait a little longer.

"What were you thinking, Remus?" yelled Sirius.

"I was _thinking_ that we need all the help we can get if we want even half a chance of winning this war," responded Remus sharply.

Sirius glared at him. "Like she's going to be much help."

Eleanor yanked on his arm, shrieking, "How _dare_ you?!"

He brushed her off. "I said to keep out of this."

"What is going on in here?"

The kitchen swiveled to glare in unison at the newcomers in the doorway. Sirius rolled his eyes. Harry's two cohorts, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, were staring at them all in shock. It figures that the two teenagers would rush down at the first sign of commotion rather than staying well out of the way where they belonged. The two of them seemed to have the absurd idea that they should be involved.

Molly took advantage of the momentary silence to push the twins and Ginny another few feet closer to the doorway. "I think we should leave these three to talk."

Ginny twisted out of her mother's grasp and lunged back at the table, winding her arms around one of the chairs. "I think I need another cup of tea before I go to bed."

Sirius couldn't help but smile as he saw Molly make the mistake of turning her back on the twins to chastise her daughter. "Ginevra Molly Weasley, get—"

Fred and George darted past their father to the other end of the kitchen, seating themselves with their arms folded. Ron and Hermione, realizing that this situation would be much better if witnessed first-hand rather than regaled to them later, joined the twins at the far end of the table.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius noticed Eleanor suppressing a smile, and his own smile twisted into a scowl. She _would_ laugh at a time like this. Sirius couldn't help but feel a bit of satisfaction when her smile soured and her eyes narrowed when _she _noticed _his _face. She wasn't as calm as she pretended after all. He buried a triumphant "Ha!"

Sirius noticed Molly and Arthur questioning Remus none-too-subtly.

"Are you _sure_ it won't get too . . . cold . . . in here? Fred is prone to chills."

"You know, Ginny faints at the sight of blood. What if someone . . . cuts themselves?" ("I do not, mother! Geez!")

"What if they begin . . . reminiscing?"

Merlin's beard, this was getting ridiculous. "Right," Sirius interrupted. "Everyone sit down."

Molly and Arthur exchanged a final, wary glance before they joined their children and Hermione at the table. Fred and George were excitedly perched on the edge of their seats. Eleanor stiffly took a seat as well, making it perfectly clear in the three steps it took for her to reach the chair that sitting down was her idea, not his.

Fourteen years and she was exactly the same.

Only Sirius and Remus were left standing. Remus was staring at him suspiciously. Sirius quickly plastered his "who, me?" face on. Remus, still staring skeptically at him, made his way to the table as well.

Sirius smiled. "Since everyone seems comfortable, I'm sure you won't mind if I head off. Been a tiring day, you know." He forced a yawn and started for the door, seeing through the darkness to the sweet freedom that lay beyond.

"Sirius, stop."

He was mere steps away from the hall, which was only feet away from the stairs, and from there, 135 steps before he was safely locked in his room. Once there, he would conjure an extra few deadbolts and at least three protection charms and sleep like a goblin in a house of gold.

A hand on his shoulder stayed his progress. It was Remus.

"Not now," Sirius growled.

"Can I talk to you in the hallway," said Remus. It was not a question. He steered his sulking friend into the darkness. Their faces were shadowed, only prominent features illuminated by the lamps in the kitchen.

"Sirius, you can't just walk out. You need to deal with the reality of her being here not just this time, but every time the Order meets."

"How could you bring her here without any warning?" Sirius hissed in response.

"I honestly didn't think about it," admitted Remus. "I'm sorry, old friend."

Sirius sniffed. "I don't—I'm not sure—" He stopped.

Remus slapped his shoulder. "Come on, Padfoot," he said with force cheer. "Do you think Eleanor sits around moping? I guess she's finally learned to let go and grow up."

That sounded rehearsed, but it caused Sirius to grit his teeth. She had let go, huh? She had screamed so loudly at him dogs a mile away had howled, had flung the engagement ring so hard at him it had left an imprint, and had slapped him so hard his head was ringing for days . . . and she had let it go? Of course, that fury was nothing compared to when she thought he had sold out Lily and James.

Let it go, had she? Just . . . left him in the past? Well . . . he'd see about that. If he had spent the last fourteen years thinking about her, then she sure as hell wasn't going to get away with _letting go_ and _growing up_.

Remus, reading the resolve on his friend's face, asked, "So, you can do this?"

Sirius smiled wolfishly. "If she can let it go, I don't see why I can't."

A suspicious expression flitted across Remus's face, but it was repressed by a relieved grin. "Great. Let's go."

--

Eleanor was seething. Well, she would have been if she hadn't been bombarded with questions from the cluttered other end of the table.

"What was your name again? Helen?" Ginny asked inquisitively.

"Uh . . . no, it's Eleanor."

"Where are you from?"

"Ireland, originally, but I haven't been back in a long time. I've been living all over the place for the past little while."

"Oooh, where? I'd love to travel!"

"Well, I just came from an archeological dig in Oman."

"You're joking!" interjected the frizzy-haired girl. "Not the Thrikinar dig! Where you there? What's it like? Have you found any sign of early Mongol wizards? I have a theory—just a theory, though—that the early Mongol wizards established the city, and it was the city that lead to the Mongol hoards destroying the middle east. You see—"

"Geez, Hermione. Let her breathe," laughed the younger Weasley boy.

Hermione glared at him causing him light up like a Christmas light. "I'm just saying," he muttered defensively.

Eleanor laughed. "How long have you two been dating?"

If the Weasley kid had been red before, it was nothing compared to the scarlet flush. Eleanor could almost feel the heat coming off of his face. The frizzy haired girl, Hermione, flushed, as well, but her blush was lightly pink compared to the inferno dominating the boy's face.

The twins' laughter didn't help. The two of them were roaring with it, slapping each other on the back, making eye contact, and roaring again. Molly and Arthur merely smiled at each other.

"Oh, shut up," snapped Ginny. She turned back to Eleanor. "They're not dating."

"No, we certainly are not," agreed Hermione.

Ginny rejoined with "Ron's a git."

The boy shot the girls an irritated look before telling his brothers to "sod off."

"I'm not even going to ask," said Eleanor.

"I see you're all getting to know each other," commented a voice behind Eleanor.

She swiveled to see Sirius and Remus re-entering the kitchen. Sirius's grin was so large, Eleanor could see his molars. Didn't that man floss?

The two men sat down on the side of the table, their presence only briefly interrupting the flow of the conversation. Hermione was asking Eleanor about the dig while Ginny was trying to ask her about travel. Even Fred and George jumped in, prying into how Eleanor knew Sirius. Eleanor didn't know where to look, so she looked at Remus, silently begging him to intervene. Sadly, it was Sirius who swooped to her rescue.

"All right, I think that's enough. I'm sure you'll all get a chance to talk to her at some point, but I'll give a brief introduction."

Damn. Eleanor opened her mouth to say, "That's not necessary!" but she was headed off by Sirius.

"Eleanor attended Hogwarts but decided the wizarding world wasn't good enough for her, so she went to Muggle university to study dead people. She joined up with the Order with a bit of coercion. As soon as Voldemort disappeared, she abandoned England to dig up bones." He turned to Eleanor, who was staring at him jaw dropped. "I think I covered everything."

Shock had numbed Eleanor's system, so she just continued to stare at him. She didn't have to look to the other end of the table to know that her expression would be mirrored on the others. They hadn't even audibly gasped at Voldemort's name.

Luckily Molly had more composure than Eleanor and interceded. "Oh, Sirius, that sense of humor of yours." Her accompanying laugh was high-pitched and fake, but the children jumped at a chance to dispel the awkwardness that hung thick in the air. Molly continued.

"Eleanor was a dear friend of Harry's parents, as well as of Remus and Sirius. She joined the Order to stop You-Know-Who, putting her own career and studies on hold. Sadly, shortly before You-Know-Who found the Potters, Eleanor had a _falling out_ with Sirius—one that seems to be still affecting him." She smiled sweetly. "Did I forget anything?"

Hermione interrupted before Sirius could respond. "Did you really attend Muggle university?"

"Well, they don't teach archeology at Hogwarts," sneered Sirius.

Eleanor had come back to herself during Molly's defense. "I can speak for myself, Sirius," she bit off and turned back to Hermione, curbing her temper. "I attended for a year. Most of the Muggle techniques are the same as in wizarding digs, but as Sirius so astutely pointed out, Hogwarts doesn't teach archeology. But as for the rest of my apparently extremely subjective past, I have to agree with Sirius. It can wait. Don't die of the shock," she said scornfully to Sirius with a small smirk.

Arthur took the opportunity to try his hand again. "All right. I think that's bedtime. Upstairs."

Surprisingly, the children filed out of the room, muttering their parting pleasantries. Eleanor smiled at them, but kept her gaze on Sirius. Anger was bubbling again in her chest. Curse that man and his uncanny ability to irk the hell out of her.

Molly followed the children up the stairs, likely to make sure that they actually went to bed and didn't spend half the nights speculating about the newcomer.

Remus started on Sirius the minute the sound of footsteps faded.

"What the hell was that, Sirius? I thought you promised to be civil!"

"I did not promise to be civil," retorted Sirius, keeping his graze firmly on Eleanor in case she tried anything. He was slightly embarrassed; the rant had come out of his mouth before he had even thought it. The shock on Eleanor's face had tugged at his conscience, but he refused to give in to its nagging. She deserved it. Besides, it was all true.

The way she had been explaining her bloody sand city—it was so typical. Sirius was not yet sure what it was typical of exactly, but it was definitely typical.

Remus smacked his hand down on the table, knocking over Eleanor's cup of tea. "Stop it! Just . . . stop it. You two need to let the past _go_."

Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but Eleanor cut him off. "Remus, just leave it. Tell me what you brought me here to tell me so I can go home."

"Fine," said Remus. He jabbed a finger at Sirius. "You, don't talk." He turned back to Eleanor. "As far as we know (which is quite far), Voldemort has reassembled his old circle of death eaters and is recruiting among pureblood circles. He has also sent emissaries to the various magical communities, including the werewolves and the giants. But we've sent our own emissaries to the few who might be persuaded away from Voldemort."

"Snape still in it?" inquired Eleanor.

"Supposedly," interrupted Sirius sulkily. He cleared his throat before continuing, noticing Eleanor's suppressed smile. "He's passing _someone_ information."

"Don't let any of the children hear you talking like that," warned Remus. "Dumbledore trusts him."

Sirius rolled his eyes.

"What else does Voldemort want?" asked Eleanor.

Remus looked back at her somberly. "He wants the prophecy."

"Oh."

The trio was silent as the implications of this sunk into Eleanor. Sirius watched as she closed her eyes and clenched her hands into fists. Her nostrils flared, a sure sign that she was panicking.

"Don't worry, Elle; we're taking precautions," Sirius found himself saying, trying to reassure her. He darted a glance to Remus, indicating that he should take over. It wasn't Sirius's job anymore to stop Eleanor from freaking out.

"Yes, we have the Department of Mysteries under constant surveillance. They're not going to get it if we can prevent it."

"What if we can't stop them?"

"We can. We're prepared this time."

Eleanor nodded slowly. "Does Harry know all of this? Does he even know about the prophecy?"

Sirius held his tongue. He refused to get into a fight with her about Harry. About everything else, okay, but not about Harry. He smiled a little when he thought about Harry's reaction would be when he was finally brought to the house and then not told anything. But he would find out. The boy was just like James.

Remus sighed. "No, he doesn't know. He's still at his aunt and uncle's house."

"What?" Eleanor cried. "You've just left him there? The kid is probably going crazy!"

Sirius found himself nodding his head in agreement. He quickly stopped . . . but she was right.

"Dumbledore has his reasons, Eleanor."

"Dumbledore isn't god. It's wrong to leave the poor kid there this long without telling him what is going on!"

"Look, I'm just the messenger! Take it up with Dumbledore."

"Fine, I will," replied Eleanor decisively. She waited a beat. "Is that everything?"

Remus nodded wearily. "That's everything you need to know for now. Harry is going to be brought here sometime over the next few days. Other than that . . . we're waiting."

"It's thrilling," Sirius threw in dryly.

Eleanor nodded, avoiding eye contact with Sirius. "Okay. In that case, can I Disapparate from inside here, or do I have to leave the building?"

Remus and Sirius looked at each other with surprise. She was just . . . just going to leave? Just like that? Sirius's stomach swooped. He didn't want her to go.

He squashed the thought immediately. No, he wanted her to go. See what she did! She twisted him up so tightly, he couldn't even think straight! Bloody woman! Well, she was not going to drag him back into her web of lunacy! Unless that's what she wanted him to think . . . he scowled at her again. That conniving bit—

"You have to be outside of the door before you can Disapparate. It's just a safety precaution," Remus said.

Eleanor and Remus stood and made their way to the door. Sirius scrambled for a cutting remark. "You're not going to say goodbye?" he drawled. . . . Merlin's beard, what was he, sixteen?

"No. I'll likely see you far too soon, anyway," she replied, disappearing through the doorway.

Sirius sat fuming at the table until Remus came back.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked bracingly.

Sirius glowered at his friend. "Moony, that woman will drive me mad."

"Well, you're not exactly sane to begin with," he joked. "Oh, don't worry about her! It's been years. I'm sure once the . . . awkwardness . . . passes, everything will be fine."

Awkwardness . . . she bloody hates me, Sirius thought.

"I'm going to bed." He stood up, calling a short "goodnight" over his shoulder before he left the kitchen.

Sirius ranted about Eleanor in his head the whole way up to his room. They were vague and ill-formed rants, but when it comes to ranting, it's the principle of the things that matters, not the substance.

Each thought was punctuated with a stomp on the staircase. Bloody hair. Still wearing that bloody bracelet. Yelling at him. Traveling. Bloody smile. Bloody smirk!

He punched the wall on the second landing, and his swearing fell into rhythm with his steps. On the third landing, he passed by the twin's door, which swung quietly open.

"Oi, Sirius," whispered one of them.

Sirius glared at him. "What is it, Fred?"

"I'm George, mate! He's Fred." Another face popped up next to the first.

"Fine. George. What is it?" Sirius hissed impatiently.

"Just letting you know we're on your side, mate. Girls, eh?"

"Yeah, man. But just remember—the guy always gets the girl in the end. If he wants her," Fred hastened to add.

George turned to his twin. "That's only if the guy is a hero, you twit."

Fred frowned. "Oh, yeah. Tough luck, Sirius."

Sirius's hex hit the solid oak door that the twins had closed not a moment too soon.

--

Hope you liked it!

Review! Please do. I'll make it easy.

Yes or No: Do you like the story?


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters.

Can't think of anything witty/mildly amusing to say tonight, but I do have a question. If you were formulating an insult that fit the following format, what would it be? "Salacious (insert noun here)"

Please post what you come up with.

While you're posting your original insult, feel free to review this chapter and/or tell me what you think of the story so far.

As a side note, the exchange between Ron and the twins is dedicated to my roommate and her paralyzing fear of certain eight-legged creatures.

Hope you like it!

--

**Chapter 7: The Morning After**

--

Eleanor woke up groggily the next morning with a pounding headache. Where had she been last night? She held her head, expecting visions from the Leaky Cauldron or another pub to seep through as her memories reassembled themselves—this had to be a hangover!

Instead, Sirius's sneering face materialized in her mind's eye.

Her head snapped up. Oh. _That_ explained it.

She bounced off the couch with righteous indignation. He wanted to play dirty, did he? "Digging up dead people"? Psh! At least she wasn't cooped up in a dingy, rotting house with dead elves brightening up the walls. There. That was comforting.

She made her way furiously to the kitchen, where she noisily made a pot of tea. How had she lived without tea?

As she was pouring a cup, Mysti rolled into the kitchen. "I couldn't decide if it was you or a drunken rooster banging around the kitchen at this unearthly hour," she grumbled, gesturing for her sister to pour her a cup, too. Early morning crabbiness was a Mahan family tradition.

"It's ten-thirty," Eleanor replied.

"Yeah, on a Saturday," growled Mysti, sipping her tea. Her eyes widened and she sprayed the brown liquid onto the counter.

"What's wrong?" asked a concerned Eleanor.

Mysti coughed a bit, gagging on some mystery substance. Eventually, she managed to gasp out, "That . . . is not tea!"

"Yes, it is! I think I know how to make tea," Eleanor snapped defensively.

Mysti had caught her breath. She leaned over Eleanor to pour the black-brown fluid down the sink. "If that's what you were drinking out in Timbuktu, it's no wonder you came home, hon."

"It was Oman, and this is normal, English tea." She took a sip to punctuate her point.

Oh, no. Her mouth was shriveling up, the acid in her mouth eating it away. It tasted like . . . like . . . there were no words.

She spat it out into the sink. Did it just sizzle?

She turned back to her sister, who was smiling smugly. "Are my teeth still intact?" she asked, sheepishly.

"Yes. Now, move aside while _I_ make us some _real_ tea."

Eleanor meekly stepped aside. Her embarrassment overcame her normal morning grumpiness.

"So," Mysti continued, awake thanks to the toxic tea, "I woke up to a very strange dream last night." She prodded two cups of water with her wand until steam rose out of them.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yep." She handed Eleanor her cup. "I dreamt that Remus Lupin showed up and dragged you off in the middle of the night."

This time Eleanor spewed a mouthful of tea onto the counter. "What?!"

Mysti pointed at the regurgitated tea. "There is nothing wrong with this tea, Elle, so you swallow it!"

"I spat out of shock, Myst!"

Her sister looked somewhat appeased. "Fine. What was Lupin doing here?"

"You tell me. It was your dream, not mine." Eleanor took an innocent sip.

"He was here, Elle, and you're going to tell me why." Her eyes narrowed. "You didn't come back for Sirius, did you?"

Appalling. "No! Wha—no! He's a serial killer, you know."

Mysti swirled her cup around, avoiding Eleanor's eyes. "You know, apparently Dumbledore doesn't think he is anymore."

Eleanor gulped nervously. What was Mysti getting at? "Well . . . Dumbledore, right? I mean, you said it yourself. He's coming out with all sorts of stuff."

Mysti nodded slowly. "I just mean that you knew Sirius for years. Isn't there a chance that . . . well, I'm just saying."

The two drank their tea in silence. Finally, Eleanor caved. "Remus came by to reminisce, but we didn't want to wake you."

Mysti's head shot up. "Reminisce? At that hour?"

Damn. "Er . . . yes."

Mysti stared at her. She knew Eleanor was lying, but Eleanor lied about so few things that Mysti let it be.

Luckily they were both distracted by an owl swooping in through the balcony doors. It dropped a few letters on the table and swooped back out. Mysti flicked uninterestedly through them. Most of them seemed to be bills, but there were a few letters in there which Mysti tore open to read.

As her sister was occupied, Eleanor weighed the chances of poisoning herself if she attempted to make another cup of tea. One dose of caffeine was not enough to start the morning, especially after the night she'd had.

"Here's one for you," Mysti said, tossing a letter at Eleanor.

Eleanor looked at the grubby letter in surprise. It has "EXPRESS" stamped largely across its face.

"How'd they know to find me here?" she wondered aloud.

"Oh, most of your mail is forwarded here. I have a box somewhere if you're interested."

Eleanor studied the seal before opening it, but she didn't recognize it. She looked immediately at the signature at the bottom of the very short letter.

It was from Archie!

_Dearest Ellie, dear,_

_I hope you traveled well and that the papers went through without a hitch. I'm writing in regard to that fascinating urn you upturned. It seems to be a fairly powerful spell that is quite dangerous. Keep it close, won't you? And don't tell anyone. London is awfully full of who knows what lately. I'll send the translation in a separate letter. Best be careful on this one._

_Give all the chaps at the Ministry a hello for me. Ta for now._

_Much love,_

_Archie_

Eleanor stared at the letter intently. The urn was dangerous? She knew it was interesting, but . . . dangerous?

"Is there another letter in there for me, Myst?"

Mysti looked up from her own letter. "Hmm? Oh, no. Sorry."

Eleanor returned to the living room and pulled her knapsack onto her lap. She removed the urn and held it up to the light. It seemed to be no different than the dozens of other pieces she'd unearthed at the Omani dig. The pattern decorated its shell was a common design for the area and the time.

She flipped it gently over. The French was barely readable without the water darkening its crevices. Archie was sending the translation, he said, but she was burning to know what it said.

Did she know anyone who spoke French?

Sirius and Remus didn't, that much she did know. She doubted she could get in touch with Dumbledore though he probably spoke it. Molly and Arthur . . . she doubted it. And Mysti could barely speak English, let alone French.

Maybe one of the Weasley children had learned French somewhere along the way . . .

She put the urn down on the coffee table and stared at it. She wanted the urn's secret, but she was not prepared to brave that bloody man's presence again to unlock it.

She sat staring for a few more minutes before resolving on a course of action. She could be patient.

Archie had promised the translation would follow, so she would wait. She could wait. Who said she couldn't wait? She'd wait.

Well, all right. If the translation wasn't here by the next morning, she'd brave headquarters.

Meanwhile, she had a flat to rent. And she should probably do something about work . . .

--

Sirius was distracting himself. Not that he really needed to be distracted, but . . . well, you know. Molly needed help. He liked helping.

He had to remind himself of this when Molly thrust a soapy bucket and a rag into his hands.

"You can start with the doors. They're filthy! Wash them down, dry them, and then rub them down with lemon oil."

"I have a better idea," he suggested in return. "Why don't I get my wand to wash, dry, and rub the doors?"

Molly arched an eyebrow at him. "If the children can deal without magic for one morning, I'm sure a full grown man can, too."

Sirius narrowed his eyes at her retreating back. She was punishing him. She definitely hadn't forgotten his behavior from the night before, and neither had the children. Sirius was sure of it especially since, when he had walked into the first floor study that morning, everyone fell silent.

Hermione and Ginny shared a look and giggled.

Oh, yes. They were definitely talking about him. Well, maybe Eleanor. But more likely him.

He turned to the first cupboard and soaked the rag in the bucket.

The red-haired Weasley boys were working on the hardwood floor; Hermione and Ginny were flipping through the bookshelves. They worked in silence for close to an hour before Fred and George got antsy.

"Ron . . . don't move!" blurted Fred abruptly.

Ron (predictably) froze. "What?"

"You don't want to know mate," rejoined George, catching his twin's eye. "Just don't move."

"What is it, Fred?!" asked Ron, his eyes zipping around his sockets, catching as much as they could without Rom having to move his head.

"Oh, ignore them, Ron," Hermione said exasperatedly.

"Hermione," exclaimed Fred, "we're trying to help."

"There's nothing there."

"Well, you can't exactly see anything from up there on your high hippogriff, can you?" joked George.

Hermione scowled at him. Ron let out a panicked yell. "What can't she see? George!"

"It's just a spider, Ron." George patted his pale brother's shoulder reassuringly.

Ron leapt up, crashing into a side table and knocking over a lamp. "Where? Where!?" he bellowed.

Ginny snapped the book she was holding shut. "Oh, sit down, Ron. You're embarrassing yourself."

Molly went across the room to investigate the ruckus. She didn't bother to inquire as to what had happened. One look at the twins' faces, and she knew who to blame. "Fred, George, leave Ron alone. Just keep scrubbing. I want to finish the cleaning by lunch so we can start on the shelves."

Her admonition seemed to work. For about five minutes, anyway. Sirius couldn't stop the wry smile that appeared on his face when the twins started again.

"Fred, I've decided."

"Whazzat, George?"

"When we're rich, famous entrepreneurs . . ."

"So, next year, yeah?"

"Around then, yeah. When we're rich and famous . . . we're going to need staff and the like."

"True. No business man should have to stock his own shelves."

"Well said. So, Ron. We'll cut you in now if you're interested."

Ron glared at them. "I'm going to be in school, you prats. Besides, where are you two going to get the gold to start a bloody joke shop?"

"Language, Ronald. Language," rebuked George.

Fred continued, ignoring Ron's question about funding. "Planning on taking N.E.W.T.S, eh? I didn't think they offered a sixth and seventh year in arachnophobia." The two of them roared with laughter as Ron's ears turned pink.

"Very funny," he muttered.

"Boys," warned their mother from the other side of the room.

Again, silence reigned. About a half hour later, Sirius heard Ginny whisper something to Hermione. The two engaged in a furious conversation, unheard by anyone else.

Finally, the boys' curiosity overpowered them.

"What are you two talking about?" asked Ron nonchalantly.

Sirius felt the girls' eyes on him, and he flushed a little in spite of himself. Great. Bloody great. Bloody women have to bloody talk about everything. He kept his back turned and pretended he couldn't hear them.

Hermione ventured to raise her voice above a whisper. "We're wondering about Eleanor."

"Still?" asked Fred.

Ginny interrupted. "Of course still. We don't know anything about her. I mean, we know most of the Order from Hogwarts, or we've gotten to know them over the past few weeks. She's a mystery, Fred."

Ron rejoined, "Well, we know she was in the Order before. And she seems to hate Sirius."

"But why?" asked one of the girls—Sirius thought it was Hermione. "I mean, Sirius can be broody and all, but it's hard to believe anyone could hate him. How do you think she knows him?"

"Maybe Sirius ate her cat or something," piped Fred.

The boys sniggered.

"Funny," Hermione said dryly.

"Come on, Hermione. No one's going to tell you anything," resumed Fred. "They're being as tight-lipped about this Eleanor woman as they are about Order business."

Hermione glared at the three boys before turning to Ginny. "Harry would be interested. Do you think writing to him about her would be a violation of Dumbledore's orders?"

"Yes, it would," interjected Molly, towering over the gossiping group. "Don't mention Eleanor to anyone. We can't have her tied to the Order. Now get back to work. We'll have lunch in about an hour."

It's going to be a long hour, Sirius thought, wringing his rag out irritably.

--

"Is the post here, yet?"

Mysti dropped her head, banging it on her desk. "No, Elle! I told you that I'd let you know if something came! Get back to work."

Eleanor gestured stormily to her pile of newspapers. "Cutting out 'to rent' ads is hardly work."

Mysti pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the couch. "Go."

Eleanor went, but she wasn't happy about it.

--

Sirius was hiding.

Thankfully the cleaning was finished. He doubted he could endure much more petty squabbling, and the sotto musings about his past with Eleanor had caused him to crack the glass frame on one of the cupboard doors.

He was now in the pantry, eating some leftovers from the previous night out of a pot and keeping a wary eye on the door.

Part of him wanted to join the chattering crowd in the kitchen, where real food awaited him. However, he didn't want to be present when they were whispering about him.

Taking the food upstairs was out of the question. Molly had some ridiculous rule about eating at the table, especially when she cooked.

No, hunched over cold scraps in the pantry was the best he could do.

He almost felt like he was on the run again, eating what he could when he could get it.

Bloody Eleanor.

And, to top it all off, he could hear the conversation from the other room.

"But seriously," Hermione was saying (he had learned to recognize the know-it-all keenness of her voice, "what happened between Eleanor and Sirius?"

Molly sighed wearily. "Please just drop it, Hermione."

"I want to know, too," declared Ginny.

There were various degrees of agreement among the boys.

After ten minutes of begging, Molly caved. Alarmed, Sirius searched the pantry for a way out. There was none. He was trapped.

"Very well, very well. But I'm not going into detail. It's best left in the past."

Sirius could hear the eagerness hanging in the air. Don't do it, Molly, he channeled loudly. Don't do it.

However, do it she did. Molly had a captive audience. She seemed quite pleased with their thirst for her story as she began the retelling.

"This all happened after my time, but I've heard enough to have a fairly shrewd idea of what went on. As Sirius mentioned none too politely last night, Eleanor attended Hogwarts. She came from an all Muggle family, poor dear, so she was awfully anxious about attending a wizarding school. Harry's mother, Lily, and her friends took Eleanor in just after their first year. You all know about Harry's father and the exploits of his little gang—Sirius and Remus have made no secret of that."

She smiled nostalgically. "Well, Lily was almost as bad. Eleanor fit right in with that little band. Once Lily and James started dating, Eleanor also became close friends with Remus and Sirius. They were quite the group. All of them joined the Order as soon as they left school. I'm not quite sure when Sirius and Eleanor started dating, but—"

"Dating?" interjected Fred, incredulously.

"I knew it," said Ginny smugly.

Sirius winced. He considered blasting a hole in the wall and just leaving the house—any horror Voldemort or the Ministry could connive couldn't be worse than this.

"Yes, dating. I think it was just after they left Hogwarts, actually. Anyway, one thing led to another, and they got engaged shortly after Harry was born."

"You're joking," gasped George. "Engaged? Sirius?"

"Don't sound so shocked, George," admonished Hermione. "I'm sure Sirius wasn't always the depressing, cynical beast he is now."

Sirius's hanging head snapped to attention. Depressing, cynical beast?

"No, he wasn't," agreed Molly. "He used to be quite lovely . . . well, when he wasn't trying to blow things up or pick fights."

"Well, what happened?" demanded Ginny.

"Oh, right. Well, Harry and his parents went into hiding, as did Sirius. Eleanor refused to. I think she was afraid they would go after her brother and sister. Especially her sister, who was younger. Her brother, you see, wasn't a wizard, so she felt that he should be left out of wizarding wars."

Sirius's heartbeat was shaking his whole body. All ire and cynicism melted away leaving just an aching heart and a guilty conscience. He closed his eyes painfully.

Molly. Did you have to mention Mark?

Molly continued after the briefest of beats, ignorant of the pains she was causing behind the oak door. "Eleanor's sister had wanted to join the Order, you see, but Eleanor didn't want her to be injured. Mysti was working as a secretary in the Ministry at the time, passing along information but refraining from open participation in the Order. Still, the association was known, so Eleanor wouldn't do anything to prompt an attack. Anyway, Eleanor found out about something Sirius did, and their engagement ended. Then it really ended when she thought that he had sold Harry's parents out. And now she's back to help the Order. The end."

Sirius heard the clattering of dishes as someone—he assumed it was Molly—began clearing off the table.

"Wait!" cried a chorus of voices.

"That's not the end!"

"What did Sirius do?"

"But why does she hate him?"

Don't tell them. Don't tell them!

Mercifully, Molly shouted over the noise. "It's not important! Back to the study!"

"Tell us!"

"Ask Sirius if you want to know."

Silence descended.

"Fine, don't tell us."

"Don't want to know that badly anyway."

"We're going, we're going."

They left, taking their grumblings with them.

Sirius rested his head on the back of the pantry door. Scenes from the past were playing across the back of his eyelids. Especially the scenes related to "Eleanor found out about something Sirius did," as Molly put it.

Something he had done . . . it had been kind of Molly to hide the truth. Sirius had spent many years in Azkaban hiding the truth from himself, refusing to let the Dementors use it to drive him mad. He had clung to his innocence and thirst for revenge, but deep down, he knew he deserved to be in Azkaban.

Murderers belonged in prison.

--

--

--

To be continued…

Thanks for reading!

Please review!


	8. Chapter 8

Hello all! Wow . . . it's been a long week. Just as a warning, this chapter is a little more angsty than I usually write (not as much as a lot of other fics out there, though), so if it sounds a little unnatural, I apologize.

I hope you like it, though. Please let me know what you think! Okay.

Oh, and it's a little shorter, but it was such a perfect place to end, I couldn't resist.

Enjoy!

--

**Chapter 8: What a Girl Wants**

--

"Where have you been all day?" demanded Remus, slamming the door open so hard it rebounded and hit him in the face.

Sirius jumped, dislodging the box of letters on his bed. "It's called knocking, Moony!"

Remus strode forward and snatched the box of paper. He glanced down, instantly guessing what it contained. He shook his head. "Padfoot . . ." he started, half sympathetic, half aggravated.

Sirius cut him off by snatching the box back and slamming its lid shut. "I just got distracted. I am _not_ sobbing into a carton of ice cream," he said, half joking, half warning.

"Then come downstairs."

Sirius licked his lips nervously. Mistake.

Remus instantly noticed the gesture and focused again. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing! I'm just—tired."

"No, something is wrong. Last night, you were storming about the place, full of righteous indignation. Today, you look as if you've seen a ghost." He paused. "Er . . . have you?"

Sirius stood up, replacing the box on a shelf above the hearth. "Luckily, there are no disgruntled relations popping in and out of the house. Can you imagine? As if this place weren't depressing enough."

"Stop dodging the question, Sirius," held Remus. "Come on. You can tell me."

Sirius barked a laugh, walking abruptly to the door. "What are we, girls? Look, I'm going downstairs. Happy?"

He left the room, descending the stairs without waiting for a reply or to see if Remus was following.

His smile waned with each step. He didn't want to face the teenagers' questions. Of course, Molly could have told them.

Damn . . . those questions would be worse.

He had tried to figure out the chances of her revisiting the story in more detail as he had sat stewing in his room all afternoon, but his head was so muddled by the last twenty-four hours, he couldn't _remember_ if Molly Weasley was the type who would betray him or not.

He hoped she was not.

--

Eleanor went to bite her nails again and was surprised when she nibbled on flesh. She stared down at them. Nail-biting had been a habit of hers at Hogwarts that she had forced herself to break once she was "an adult," as her mother had put it.

Waiting for Archie's translation seemed to have brought the habit out of retirement for a reunion tour.

I need to get out of this apartment, she thought.

. . . What if it comes while I'm gone?

She resumed her pacing in front of the balcony. Outside, rain lashed down on the unfortunate creatures caught outdoors. The rain sloshed onto the balcony floor and crashed against glass doors. Magically, none seeped through the cracks.

"Eleanor!" her sister barked suddenly.

Eleanor jumped, whirling around to find the source of the angry voice. Mysti was standing in the entryway, hands on her hips, umbrella hanging limply in her hand. Her face clearly expressed annoyance. "Get away from the windows."

Eleanor rapidly tried to think of an excuse to continue her bird watching, but she was at a loss, so she simply stayed where she was.

Mysti strode over and grabbed her sister's shoulders. "Stop obsessing. Don't you have friends you can call?"

Eleanor smiled ruefully. "I'd rather not call them if it's all the same to you."

Mysti steered her sister to the couch and pushed her down. "Look, Elle . . . we need to talk. I haven't asked you any questions, which I think is pretty damn nice of me considering all the bloody secrecy." Once Eleanor was firmly ensconced in the cushions, Mysti continued, "I'm going to be straight with you, Elle, because I love you. You're driving me bloody mad. You know as well as I do that no half-daft owls are going to get through today, so if whatever you're waiting for is too important, find another way of getting it or suck it up."

"I'm sick of people telling me to get over stuff," moaned Eleanor.

"Then find another way."

"I don't want to."

"Either go or shut up."

Eleanor stared beseechingly at her infuriated baby sister. "You don't understand, Myst . . . I don't want to revisit the past."

Mysti dropped her eyes sorrowfully. "It _is_ Sirius, isn't it?"

Eleanor's jaw clenched, locking her outraged rant inside.

The coffee table squeaked alarmingly under the sudden impact of Mysti sitting down. "Look," she began awkwardly but stopped when she saw her sister avoiding her gaze. "Elle, look at me. Please?"

Eleanor reluctantly pulled her eyes from her bare feet and looked at her sister. Mysti was staring at her seriously, which did nothing to put Eleanor's mind at ease.

"I don't know what's going on with you, hon, and I think I've been pretty good about not asking," she forced out. "But I'm going to take a guess here. You believe Sirius is innocent, don't you?"

"Sirius Black is hardly innocent," Eleanor snapped.

Mysti bit her lip. "I meant about Lily and her husband."

"Why the change of heart, Myst?" Eleanor countered. "Yesterday, you were all for condemning Dumbledore and whatever he said."

"These days, doubting the Ministry is dangerous, Elle," sighed Mysti. "I knew Sirius for a long time, you know—well, you do know. I just . . . I guess I want to believe Dumbledore. On this, anyway. It would be nice to know that old friends don't always betray you."

Eleanor wrenched her gaze away again. "It's complicated."

"Elle. Tell me."

"Fine!" she barked, trying to get up but finding herself blocked by Mysti's leg. "Overall, I don't think he sold them out to Vol—"

"Elle!"

"You-Know-Who, then! I don't think he did! Happy?"

Mysti put a hand on Eleanor's leg. "Neither do I." She hesitated awkwardly before plunging on. "Mark wasn't his fault, Elle," she rushed.

Eleanor stiffened.

Mysti stretched a hand out to her.

Eleanor slapped her sister's hand away vehemently. She whispered hoarsely, "Stop, Mysti. Don't you dare." She kicked her sister's leg aside and hurried to the door. "I think I _will_ go out after all," she called thickly over her shoulder.

A tear fell to her cheek, and she roughly brushed it away.

She yanked a coat from the closet and pulled it on. Shoes . . . shoes . . .

She could hear Mysti timidly approaching her from behind.

Faster . . . aha! Flip flops. They would do.

Eleanor jerked the door open, yelled a choked farewell, and ran down the stairs to the street.

Though it had been years since she had lived in London, and she couldn't even remember what part of the city Mysti lived in, she picked a direction (left) and began walking.

Rain pelted her head, sliding down her neck and under her coat. Her feet went numb in minutes. Two inches of her jeans were soaked and heavy. Her mascara made solid tracks down the sides of her face.

Wait—was she wearing mascara?

It didn't matter.

Her heart was beating out of her chest, begging the rain to wash her pain away with the rest of the grime.

--

Sirius entered the kitchen, feigning a smile. "Good afternoon, all."

The kitchen was more crowded than he had expected. Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Mad-Eye Moody were sitting at the table as well as Molly, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

"About time you showed up," growled Mad-Eye.

"Nice to see you, too," Sirius retorted.

"Oh, be quiet, the both of you," hushed Tonks. She was bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. "Guess what, Sirius!"

"Um . . . it's your birthday?"

"No! We have a rescue plan for Harry."

Sirius snapped to attention. "You do? What is it?"

Remus filled him in as Molly dished him up a plate of cold dinner. A team was going to go to Harry's in the middle of the night and fly him back here. It seemed fairly simple. They were going the next night.

"What about his aunt and uncle?" Sirius asked around a mouth full of mashed potato.

Tonks snorted. "They're going to a garden awards show to receive a prize."

Sirius made a face. "Muggles have those?"

"No! Well, yes, but this one isn't real. We made it up to get them out of the house. Daft."

Hermione opened her mouth, as if to defend the art of garden maintenance, but thought better of it. Ron smirked at her, and Ginny, intercepting the look, punched him in the arm.

Sirius wondered vaguely if Harry's presence would calm the teenagers down or just make the situation worse. Either way, Sirius was looking forward to his godson's arrival. In fact . . .

"I'm coming to get Harry with you guys," said Sirius to the room.

They burst into protest.

"It's too dangerous," Remus said.

"You'll blow our over," roared Mad-eye.

"Get real," laughed Tonks.

"You'll see him when he gets here," interjected Shaklebolt.

"Fine," shouted Sirius, just to shut them all up. Once they stopped talking, he continued. "Look, it'll be dark and we'll be flying. No one will see me!"

"No!" everyone chorused.

"Gah, fine!" Sirius returned to his dinner, glowering.

"They won't let us go, either, mate," Ron chimed in.

"That's comforting, Ron," Sirius responded dryly.

Hermione rolled her eyes when Ron smiled reassuringly at Sirius. The git thought he was actually serious. Sirius didn't know what the girl saw in Ron, but it seemed she was fond of him. Heaven help her.

"Tomorrow night!" Tonks trilled.

"Yeah," Sirius responded.

"It'll be nice for Harry to meet another one of his parents' friends," Hermione mused. "He likes to feel connected with them. And I think he'll like Eleanor, as long as she is not misrepresented to him." She stared at Sirius, who rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry about me." He smiled tersely.

It hadn't hit him until then that Harry was going to meet Eleanor. Harry would, of course, be curious. He would start talking to her . . . finding out about the past . . . asking questions . . .

Sirius didn't know if he could withstand Harry's questioning like he had the others'. Harry was really all he had left—his last connection to James. If Harry found out about Mark . . . well, Sirius didn't think he could survive Harry abandoning him too.

Oh, get a grip, he told himself. Harry won't abandon you. It was an accident, it was in the past, and he probably won't find out anyway.

These words were of no comfort. His heart was still heavy with cold dread.

What was he going to do?

--

Eleanor was lost. She remembered walking through the deserted Kensington Gardens. She thought she had passed through Piccadilly Circus—yes, the neon sign had been barely visible through the rain.

She had been blind to her environment. All she could see was Remus's drawn face telling her the bad news . . . Sirius's shocked face when she had burst into his apartment . . . his sorrowful eyes as he tried to explain . . . the aching expression on his face when she threw the engagement ring at his head.

Reliving the past wasn't helping her figure out what she wanted. She had been struggling with the question since she had stupidly opened Remus's letter instead of burying it in the sand.

The rain was beating down even harder as she walked. She wanted . . . she wanted the rain to beat those bloody memories out of her. She wanted to rewind time and stay in Oman to dig up pots. She wanted to see Lily again. She wanted Mark to be alive.

She wanted to know what really happened.

This realization stopped her in her tracks. She had spent fourteen years trying to forget, but now she wanted to know. She wanted to make Sirius explain. She wanted to actually listen to him when he did.

For the first time, she noticed her surroundings. It seemed to be a row of houses just of the Strand. They were familiar, in a dark, dank, and depressing way. She closely ran her eyes over the houses again. There.

Number twelve Grimmauld Place.

She had walked right to Sirius's front door.

--

Sirius was sitting in the library alone. The excited chattering about Harry's impending arrival had made him so tense, he was actually reading poetry. Keats, to be exact.

Eleanor had always loved poetry. She had bought him this anthology for the first Christmas after they had left Hogwarts. He flipped back to the inscription.

_Padfoot,_

_About time you started getting educated. Merry Christmas, love._

_Elle_

He smiled softly. It was so casual, but he remembered she laughed as she gave it to him. It was easy, being young and in love.

Snap out it. He flicked the book back to "Ode to a Nightingale." Sirius couldn't make any sense out of Keats, but at least it was something _else_ to think about.

--

Eleanor burst into the kitchen. Water poured off of her in waves with every movement she made.

Molly was the first to see her. "Eleanor! What are you doing?"

Eleanor imagined how she looked. Her hair was plastered in tendrils to her face and neck, her make-up was washed away, and her clothes were clinging unflatteringly to her body.

"Where's Sirius?" she gasped through the water.

"In the library," Ginny said numbly, shocked by Eleanor's appearance.

Eleanor turned and disappeared back up the stairs without another word.

--

Eleanor sped into the library, startling Sirius. His convulsion caused his book to drop into his lap. Luckily, he wasn't holding something heavier or he would have dropped it when he saw Eleanor's appearance.

She looked like a drowned cat. The river following in her wake didn't help.

Sirius regained his composure enough to say scathingly, "Fancied a swim in the Thames?" Gah! Why was it always scathing?

Eleanor ignored his comment and advanced toward his chair. Sirius jumped up and backed against the wall.

Rather than attacking him, she sat, without regard for the water cascading down her body and onto the leather.

"Eleanor, what are you doing?" he asked only slightly defiantly. He was a little concerned. She hadn't even retorted to his ever so clever comment about the Thames.

Eleanor simply stared at him, eyes wide, through her straggled curtain of hair.

"W-what's wrong, Elle?" he asked, anxiety overcoming his bravado.

"We need to talk," she said dumbly.

Sirius realized that underneath the water, her eyes were red and raw—she had been crying. He froze. He didn't know if he could deal with a tearful Eleanor. Angry, yes. Sarcastic, definitely. Murderous, even that was better than crying.

Where _is_ everybody? he thought, panicked.

"Sirius, please," she pleaded.

He was walking back to his chair before his mind could think about it. He was going to regret this. Once he was seated, he was proved right.

Eleanor burst into tears.

A trap!

Sirius waited awkwardly. What was the social protocol on comforting your ex-fiancée who hates you?

Finally, Eleanor's sniffling became less violent. Sirius turned his gaze from the intricate rug on the floor—the wet, intricate rug— and actually looked at Eleanor.

Bloody hell, she was beautiful.

Stop it!

"What's wrong?" he asked again.

"We need to talk about Mark," she sniffed.

"No." The word was out before Sirius could stop it. He recoiled from Eleanor. "No. Please."

She looked miserably into his eyes. "Please?" she begged.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because I _want _to. It's taken me fourteen years, but I want to know. I thought it didn't matter. Really, I did. I thought up until last night! But now . . ." She let the sentence trail off.

Sirius was breathing heavily. He closed his eyes. "Your reaction . . . the first time I told you . . . it was enough. You don't have an engagement to break off this time. I don't want a broken arm or head."

Eleanor gave a small, rueful smile. "I won't. I promise."

Sirius cracked an eye. "No offense, but that doesn't mean much to me."

"Oh, when have I lied to you?" she asked with a sad chuckle.

"I don't think there's enough time in the world to go through the list."

Eleanor's smile fractured slightly wider. "We can start on that list later. For now . . ." Her smile faded. "Damn it, Sirius, I really need to know," she said softly.

Sirius sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. They were already burning. "Why?"

"I told you. I need to know the truth."

"You went from 'want' to 'need,' you know."

"It's somewhere in there."

Sirius nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll try."

Eleanor sighed deeply and sunk back into her chair. "Thank you."

Sirius picked a point on the floor and, staring at it, he began to relive one of the worst nights of his life.

--

My next chapter might not be up for about a week or so. I have finals for my spring semester! Not excited, but what can I do? Suck it up.

Review meanwhile! It'll motivate me to write, so if you want the next chapter sooner than, say, July . . . review!

Thanks!

Hope you enjoyed it!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I still don't own Sirius Black or any other HP characters, but if you don't know that, then you're probably not reading Harry Potter fan fic in the first place.

Welcome to my first flashback chapter!

Okay, I know it's been a while since I posted, but this chapter is longer to make up for it. PLUS, you finally get some questions answered!

Yeah, these last few weeks have been very busy. I had finals and then my boss went out of town, so I was swamped with work. I can't guarantee that this chapter will be as good as some of the other ones, but I hope you (as always) enjoy!

--

**Chapter 9: It Seemed My Troubles Were so Far Away . . . Yesterday**

--

Sirius was pacing the floor again.

The rug was worn white in a steady line across it, and soon Sirius would be walking his path on the stone floor. He snapped his fingers in time with his steps, his restless energy eager to grasp any outlet.

This was his least favorite part of being underground: waiting.

As usual he was waiting for word. Tonight, it was word from Remus, Eleanor, Gideon, and Fabian. Sirius didn't know exactly what the mission was—Remus refused to tell him—but he did know that they were trying to intercept a group of Death Eaters who were suspected of "escorting" Arola Cantoe to a "safe" house. Yet he remained in the dark as to where the Order would take her and why they wanted her.

Sirius threw his hands up and rested them on the back of his head. He would have scowled, but there was nothing to scowl at. Scowling at a lamp didn't grant the same satisfaction as scowling at a person. Hell, even an owl would have sufficed.

Arola was an old friend from Hogwarts—well, an old girlfriend.

Eleanor's face when she heard Arola's name . . . Sirius chuckled. He almost pitied Arola. She would get the rescue from hell. No, Eleanor was more of an avenging angel than a malevolent devil.

Still, Eleanor aside, Arola was an old friend, and Sirius was stuck in this dingy, two-room, basement flat, unable to help.

He whirled forcefully around and smacked his toe on the corner of the sofa.

He cursed vehemently, taking his pent-up aggression out on his poor toe. Well, he couldn't very well pace with this bloody injury.

He abandoned his pacing and flopped down on the sofa, his arms wrapped around his body. He dozed off during his mental enraged rant about large sofas cramped into small rooms.

"Sirius? Wake up, babe. Sirius?"

Sirius snapped up with an articulate, "Wazzit?"

Eleanor was planted firmly over him, staring down at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Sirius cracked a crooked grin. "Evening, Elle."

"Oh, get up," she said, rolling her eyes to cancel out the smile slowly creeping across her face. She started to walk past him.

He wrenched his hand out from under his body and snatched her arm. She tried to yank it away from him, but he held firm.

Sirius grinned devilishly. She shot him a stern look, but instead of slapping his hand away like she usually did, she hesitated. And that was his opening.

She was shifting her balance in preparation for another escape attempt.

Sirius pulled, and Eleanor flopped down on top of him with an elegant, "Bloody he—oof!"

Quickly, Sirius snaked his arms around her, holding her tightly. "Oh, hello, love."

"Sirius Orion, you let me go," cried Eleanor, struggling against Sirius's chest.

"What, no kiss?" teased Sirius. "A long absence and not even a peck?"

"Oh, you're a riot. Let me go." Her voice sounded strained.

She was trying not to laugh. The realization hit Sirius like a pot of gold thrown by an overenthusiastic leprechaun.

He wiggled one of his arms free, carefully keeping Eleanor trapped with the other. There was one spot . . . aha!

He poked her side, just under the ribs.

Eleanor let out a half shrieking, half gurgling spurt of mirth. "Sirius, don't!"

Sirius was gleeful with joy. This was worth the wait.

"Don't what?" he asked innocently, tickling her again.

She screamed with laughter. "Sirius . . . no . . . don't . . ."

Sirius laughed, poking her again.

Her body jolted sharply, dislodging her from his grip. Sirius couldn't stop laughing as he watched his fiancée hit the floor. She was paralyzed with laughter, only managing to gasp out, "Stop . . . stop . . . no more . . ."

"Are you two quite finished?" sounded a dry voice from the door.

Sirius twisted awkwardly to see above the sofa arm. Arola was staring disapprovingly at Eleanor who was still convulsing on the floor.

"Arola!" Sirius jumped off of the couch to greet his old friend. She looked tired, but beautifully so. Arola always looked beautiful. Sirius would have sworn that there was Veela blood in her.

She smiled tersely and gave him a quick hug. "Sirius. How are you?"

"Bored out of my skull, as a matter of fact. You?"

"Well, considering I had to suffer being kidnapped by Death Eaters and then had to endure a botched rescue from said Death Eaters, I'm doing as well as can be expected."

Sirius pulled out his charming smile. "You're alive, Aro. You're allowed to relax."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "Are you going to tell me what will happen next?"

"Don't you like surprises?"

"It depends," she smiled. "Your presence, for example, isn't entirely unpleasant . . . I suppose."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" He asked, keeping his smile firmly in place.

"I'll make it," Eleanor interjected, appearing suddenly between the two old "friends." She pulled away, shooting a warning glare at Sirius as she went.

He cleared his throat and followed her. "What did you mean by 'botched rescue'?" he asked over his shoulder.

"She's being dramatic," said Eleanor, fussing noisily with a teapot.

"I am not," Arola countered. "Remus got his leg broken, and the Death Eaters have my notes. We have to get them back."

"Why?" Sirius asked, warily taking the cup of tea Eleanor offered him. Eleanor had many talents, but making tea was not among them. Of course, she flew off the handle at the slightest insult against her brewing technique.

"It contains the personal information of all of the Aurors in London," Arola explained.

Eleanor almost dropped Arola's cup of tea into her lap. "Why the devil would you keep all of that in one place?"

Arola frowned at Eleanor. "Someone has to keep it."

"It's called a safe with a lock," Eleanor responded slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

Arola narrowed her eyes. She took a sip of tea before responding . . . but the response never came. Her glare twisted into an elegant expression of disgusted alarm as the taste of the black liquid hit her.

"Is Remus all right?" Sirius asked quickly, anxious to avoid any skirmishes.

"He's fine," Eleanor responded. "I'm taking Arola to him now. He should be healed up and ready for the next stage. I just wanted to check in on you."

"Aw, thanks mom," he replied sarcastically.

She stuck her tongue out at him over her mug. Oh, yes, she could sip away just fine while any other mortal took their life in their hands by drinking Eleanor Mahan's tea.

He smirked at her in return before continuing. "Well, be careful."

Eleanor gave him a stony glare. Arola, however, had managed to swallow her tea, and she threw in, "It's just Remus."

Sirius opened his mouth but paused. Eleanor was making a violent slashing movement across her throat. Sirius stared at her.

_Kill_ Arola? he mouthed subtly to Eleanor as Arola brought her cup to the sink.

No, you moron, Eleanor mouthed back. Don't accuse Remus.

Sirius scowled. His accusations were justified. Remus had become increasingly secretive during the past few months, and _someone_ was feeding information to Voldemort.

Arola rejoined the two. "So," she said, "When are we headed to Remus's?"

"I don't think—" Sirius started.

"—we should wait any longer," Eleanor finished. "We're leaving now."

Arola stared at the two of them, knowing she was missing something.

Eleanor headed Sirius off by explaining, "We're practicing finishing each other's sentences. Cute, right?"

Sirius's lips twitched into a smile. Arola stared at Eleanor, pure disgust on her face.

Eleanor smiled innocently.

Sirius felt a familiar, warm affection spread through his body; Eleanor was so endearingly deceitful.

The object of his musing quickly gathered the two remaining mugs and put them in the sink. She hustled Arola quickly to the door and turned to bid Sirius a quick goodbye.

"Don't do anything stupid," she warned.

He rolled his eyes. "Like what, dye the sofa purple?"

She regarded him suspiciously. He plastered his best innocent face on. His innocent face had been perfected by years of escaping responsibility for various acts of mischief; however, though it had saved him time after time, Eleanor seemed impervious to his deception. She only believed it half of the time.

Still, he didn't have any _organized_ plans . . . just vague ideas about stealing the list of Aurors back from the Death Eaters.

Vague plans, mind you.

Eleanor finally gave up her scrutiny. "Okay. Be careful."

She turned away to follow Arola out of the door.

"Wait," Sirius said, pulling Eleanor back to him.

He put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her into a soft kiss. He could feel her smile slightly as she slid a hand up his arm and lightly touched his face. His arm coiled around her waist, and he drew her in closer.

She stiffened abruptly against him and pulled away. "I have to go," she sighed.

"You'll come by tomorrow?" he murmured flirtatiously.

She grinned. "Definitely."

She smacked a quick kiss against his lips before leaving, closing the door firmly behind her. Sirius beamed idiotically at the back of the door. He knew exactly how pathetic Eleanor made him; he used to mock James endlessly about his exact same behavior regarding Lily. Still, Sirius couldn't help it. Eleanor was . . .

"Sirius, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?" A foreign voice intruded on Sirius's dreaming.

He snapped to and yanked his wand from his pocket.

Mark Mahan was standing in the doorway, his hands up and a smirk on his face. "I give up. You going to invite me in or what?"

"Get in here," growled Sirius, disconcerted at being caught so off guard. Confinement was making him rusty.

Mark sauntered in, a knowing grin lighting up his face. "You dreaming about anyone in particular?"

"No."

"Sure." Mark winked at him and headed toward the kitchen. "I saw who left just now." He poured a glass of water. "Eleanor made tea?" he asked, noticing the steaming mugs in the sink.

Sirius blanched. "Yeah."

His future brother-in-law chuckled. "Did the new girl drink it?"

"Arola?" Sirius clarified, joining his friend in the kitchen. "Yes, she did. Poor girl."

"She's still alive?"

"Miraculously."

Mark sat at the table, leaning back in his chair. "So what's up?"

"Like I've been told anything," answered Sirius sullenly, joining Mark at the table.

"You've been told more than me, mate. All I know is that Elle went on a mission, and that alone took some squeezing to get."

"They were rescuing Arola—"

"The hot new chick," nodded Mark.

"—and now they're off to deliver her to Remus."

"Cool, cool. Where'd they rescue her from?"

"Death Eaters. Probably Hyde Park. They like to use that as a transport point."

Mark smirked. "So you know the hot girl?"

Sirius rolled his eyes fondly. Mark was very predictable. "Her name is Arola, Mark. She's a . . . friend from Hogwarts."

Mark winked at him again. "Friend?"

Sirius repressed a smile. "Yes. The kind your sister doesn't like."

"That's what I thought. I swear that you've dated every woman in London."

"Oy, I resent that!"

"I apologize. All of south England," Mark amended.

Sirius laughed. "Don't let Elle hear you talking like that."

"So, the mission went well? No offense to the Order, but that surprises me."

"Yeah, well Remus broke his leg and Arola lost her notebook."

"Big deal. Sounds like a win to me," Mark said, setting his empty glass back on the table.

"Not exactly." Sirius leaned conspiratorially over the table (for effect, of course). "The notebook contained the names of all of the Aurors in London as well as their contact info. With that, Voldemort can hunt them all down one by one at their safe houses."

Mark furrowed his eyebrows. "Then you have to get it back."

"Well, it's going to have to wait. Getting Arola to safety is the priority, apparently."

"No," Mark argued. "What if Mysti's information is in there?"

"Mark, Mysti isn't an Auror. She's a secretary."

"It doesn't matter," he claimed. "We need to get that notebook. Now."

Sirius smiled. "I have half a mind to go after it myself. With the right spell . . . well, we could probably track the Death Eaters from Hyde Park. If that's where they were, mind you."

"You have a plan?" Mark arched an eyebrow. He knew that Sirius couldn't leave, but he also knew exactly how much Sirius hated being cooped up.

Since Sirius went into hiding, Mark and he had become good friends. Mark relied on him as a source of information, and Sirius relied on Mark as a source of sanity. Sirius decided that even if he and Eleanor hadn't been engaged, he and Mark would still be like brothers. They were one of a kind.

"Nothing definite. Not that it matters." Sirius sighed heavily, his smile melting off of his face. "I hate this."

Mark waited a beat before responding. "You know, we could still try to get the notebook."

"Trying to impress Arola?" Sirius teased.

Mark didn't laugh, which concerned Sirius. "Where's your head, Mark?"

"We could do it," he replied softly.

"Do what?" Uneasiness rose in Sirius's chest.

"Get the notebook."

"Well, you can try to get in touch with the Order. See what they say," Sirius deflected.

Not that they would say much. Mark was a Muggle, so the Order was reluctant to include him in the war. Sirius would have thought that they would welcome any help, but Dumbledore was being careful to contain the war—to keep it among wizards. Muggles would have no defense against magic.

And while Sirius could see Dumbledore's argument, the Order needed all of the help they could get.

Despite Mark's cheekiness, he wanted to help. After all, his two baby sisters were fighting, so he could hardly be expected to sit by and do nothing.

"Sirius," Mark exclaimed, "we should do it. We can steal that thing back."

Sirius blinked across the table at his friend. "You're mad! I can't leave this flat, Mark. They'll kill me."

"Yeah, yeah, they'll kill you, they'll kill everyone. I've heard it all before," he said dismissively. His eyes shone with excitement. "We can do it. They aren't going to be expecting an attack now, right after a rescue. It's perfect!"

"No," Sirius said firmly. "No way in hell. You," he said, jabbing a finger at his friend, "can't do magic, or did you forget?"

"Yeah, but so what? You can do the magic, and I can snatch the book. Besides I can throw potions and stuff, can't I?"

"I don't have any potions."

"Whip some up." Mark stood up and walked to the cupboard above the sink. "You gotta have some ingredients lying around." He began rooting through it. "You bloody liar. There are some potions right here, all ready to do some damage."

"Those are benign potions. And I can't just 'whip some up.' It's not that simple, Mark," Sirius argued, standing to join Mark.

"Come on, man. Aren't you a genius or something?"

"You're crazy," Sirius snapped. He could feel the uneasiness in his chest turn into fear. "Mark, we could never do it. Drop it."

Mark turned and gave Sirius a fierce look.

"Sirius, they could kill Mysti with this information. They _know_ she's connected to the Order somehow. We can't do _nothing_. I won't do nothing. I'm going after this bloody book, so are you coming with me?"

Sirius grabbed his friend's arm. "You are not coming."

Mark smiled evilly. "So you're going to do something?"

Damn him. "No, I'm not. You're not _going_ is what I meant. And neither am I. Drop. It."

Mark stared stonily at him. It was easy to see where Eleanor got her excellent staring ability . . . and her stubbornness. "You'll have to kill me."

"_Someone_ is going to kill you."

The two stared furiously at each other.

Mark spoke first. "What happened to your adventure? Turning into Eleanor's demure doormat already?" he sneered.

"Hey! I'm all for adventure, but not downright stupidity. If you do this, you will _die_."

"Fine." Mark yanked his arm away and strode to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sirius called after him.

"Away." Mark slammed the door behind him.

Sirius sighed heavily, trying to ignore the apprehension that was settling down and putting up a white picket fence in his chest. Mark wasn't this stupid. He wasn't. He wouldn't do anything.

His obstinate assertions aside, Sirius looked over the bottles in the cupboard. The layer of dust had been disturbed by Mark's rummaging. Even so . . . Sirius could make out clear shapes where bottles were missing.

Mark . . .

Sirius dashed to the door and tore it open. He slid into the hall only to find it deserted. He swore loudly and sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

"Mark!" he roared. Panic swelled in his chest, threatening to crush his lungs. "Mark!" he screamed desperately.

He heard the door to the building slam shut. He sped up. He couldn't Apparate until he cleared the building thanks to the bloody defensive spells Eleanor had insisted upon.

His breaths were coming short and sharp by the time he burst into the sticky heat of the summer night.

Few people were so late out in that part of town.

And Mark was not one of them.

Sirius frantically recalled everything he said about the mission. He mentioned Remus's leg . . . the notebook . . . Hyde Park . . .

Hyde Park.

Sirius ran into the alley, checking over his shoulder that no one was following. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. Hyde Park. He turned . . .

. . . and stumbled in the tall grass. He looked around.

He was in a small glade by the Serpentine. Thankfully, it was deserted. The last thing he needed was to land on top of an amorous couple.

He took off at a run, scanning the park of Mark. Hyde Park was only a few streets away from his basement hideout. Even if Mark had walked instead of driven, he should be at the park soon.

"Oy, did you hear that?"

Sirius stumbled to a stop. The voice had come from beyond the fence separating Sirius's position from the gravel path up ahead. The voice was low and harsh; it was definitely not Mark's voice.

Sirius crouched down and carefully approached he fence, keeping close to the ground.

"I don't hear anything, Lestrange."

"If you stop talking for five seconds, Rosier, you might."

"Sod off, Rastaban."

Rosier. Sirius recognized the name, as would anyone in the Order. Rosier was one of Voldemort's first Death Eaters. Rastaban Lestrange's presence should have been more of a surprise than it was. Most of Sirius's relations were stupid enough to join the Death Eaters.

What the hell were the Death Eaters still doing in the park?

"I don't hear anything, you prat. Get back to searching."

"Something's out there," protested the first voice—Lestrange's.

"Find the bloody notebook. Then you can investigate."

They hadn't found the notebook. Sirius felt a small amount of relief, but it was repressed by his fears for Mark. Death Eaters did not discriminate between Muggles and wizards when they killed.

Sirius crawled along the fence, taking care to stay a few inches away from the dry branches that lined its other side. He concentrated fiercely on not making any noise. He scrutinized his surroundings for any sign of Mark's approach. Sirius estimated that he had a good five minutes before Mark reached the park. Unless he had driven. Well, a guaranteed three minutes, then.

Sirius could hear the Death Eaters rustling around on the other side of the fence. He distinguished three individual voices, but there could easily be more.

He couldn't think of a good plan of action. There was no way he could summon help without attracting attention. He couldn't even light up his wand without the Death Eaters noticing. How the hell was he going to get Mark out of there without blowing his cover?

Sirius pushed these thoughts aside. First, he had to find Mark. Had to stop him from doing anything stupid.

A twig snapped to his left.

He swiveled his head around. He could make out a dark shadow stooping behind a tree. The Death Eaters appeared to not notice it.

Sirius squinted, trying to make out who it was.

The figure moved closer to the fence and the dim light given off by a distance lamp and the narrow beams from the Death Eaters' wands slightly illuminated its face. It was Mark.

Sirius waved an arm, taking care to keep it below the top of the fence. Mark didn't see him.

Mark, he mouthed futilely.

Mark continued towards the fence. The Death Eaters were bound to hear him any minute now.

Sirius raised his wand and silently paralyzed Mark. His friend went rigid and tipped over onto the grass.

There was a horrifying silence from the other side of the fence.

"Did you hear _that_, Rosier?" the first voice asked smugly.

"Quiet, Lestrange." There was a moment of silence. "Go check it out. You two—keep looking for the notebook."

Four Death Eaters, then.

Sirius, using Lestrange's rustling in the bushes as a cover, hurried to Mark's side. "Don't say anything," he whispered fiercely.

He tried to concentrate on Apparating, but panic was edging in. Lestrange wouldn't hesitate to kill them both.

Sirius prepared a sleeping charm, not wanting to attract the attention of something more conspicuous.

Lestrange stumbled over the fence, landing feet away. Sirius pointed his wand at his dear relation and muttered, "_Cacosomnia_!"

Lestrange dropped silently to the ground, utterly asleep.

Sirius turned his attention back to Mark, who was glaring at him. Mark's jaw was unnaturally strained. Sirius realized that he couldn't speak because of the spell. With one final admonish to keep quiet, he unfroze Mark's head.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Mark hissed.

"What am_ I_ doing? What are _you_ doing?" Sirius hissed back.

"Saving my sister."

"She doesn't need saving! She's a bloody secretary! Now relax. I'm going to take you back to my flat."

"No."

Sirius fumed. It was too dangerous to attempt Slide-Along Apparition without cooperation. He could . . . he could . . .

"What now, genius?" Mark spat.

"Shut up."

Sirius was thinking furiously. Any minute, Rosier was going to come looking for Lestrange. And now that Sirius and Mark were here, they should grab the book. But safety was their first priority. Sirius didn't want to think about what Eleanor would do to him if something happened to Mark.

"Okay," he whispered. "Here's the plan. I'll unfreeze you, then you distract the Death Eaters. Don't do anything to enrage them! Just pretend you're wandering in the park. They might still try to kill you, but it'll buy you some time first. They'll have to establish that you're not valuable. I'll summon the notebook and then get their attention. Once they see me, you run. They'll follow me."

"Are you sure?" asked Mark.

"No," Sirius snapped, "but you got us into this bloody mess, and that's the only damn way I can think of to get us out of it. Except leaving now, but you won't have any of that, so get the hell ready."

Sirius trained his wand onto Mark and muttered the counterspell. Mark collapsed limply.

"Lestrange?" Rosier called.

"Ready?" asked Sirius.

Mark nodded.

"Go."

Mark stood, stumbling forward into the fence. Immediately, three lighted wands pointed at him.

"'Scuse me, gents," slurred Mark. "You know which way'ta Vi'toria?"

Ah, the drunken bloke routine. Nice.

Sirius crawled away from Mark, readying his wand. Every few feet, he whispered, "_Accio Arola's notebook_."

He could vaguely hear Mark's nonsensical replies to the Death Eaters' demanding questions. He knew they wouldn't be patient for long.

Finally, as Rosier was making his way to Mark, something stirred in the grass in response to Sirius's summons. He whispered the spell again, louder, and a thin, leather folio flew into his hand.

Good.

He jumped to his feet, earning himself two red beams of light shot from the other two Death Eaters' wands. He ducked, yelling, "Rosier! Looking for this?"

Rosier swung around, fury plastered on his face. "Black? Black!"

Sirius turned a sprinted away from the group. He heard the sounds of footsteps following him. "Mark!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Run!"

The grass was dry and good for running, but the Death Eaters were still gaining on him. He had no idea if Mark was safe, but there wasn't much he could do. He looked over his shoulder. Only two hooded figures were following him.

Damn it.

He whirled around and shot two hexes at his pursuers. He hit one squarely in the chest, and he fell to the ground with a resounded clatter. The second dodged the curse, and, without pausing in his pursuit, shot one of his own at Sirius.

Sirius jumped aside, allowing the curse to hit a sapling ahead. It burst into flames.

He trained his wand on his pursuer again. He fired.

This time, his pursuer went down.

Sirius slid to a stop and straightened. His ankle was throbbing—he vaguely remembered catching it on a root. He began to feel stings from the shallow wounds that passing branches had made as they whipped his face.

Mark . . .

Sirius slowly began his way back to where he left his friend. His ankle was burning, causing his limp to worsen.

He passed by his two victims, walking as fast as he could back up the gravel path. He speculated as to why Rosier hadn't followed him like he should have. Sirius Black was on Voldemort's top five most wanted list, not some nameless drunk stumbling around Hyde Park.

Concern grew in Sirius's chest as he limped onward.

Gravel crunched behind him. Sirius whirled around to see his second victim, the slim one, pushing himself up, his wand fastened on Sirius's chest.

The Death Eater took advantage of Sirius's surprise and whipped his wand in three distinct strokes.

Gashes opened magically across Sirius's chest. He fell to the ground, crying out in pain.

The Death Eater laughed and approached him, his wand outstretched. "Sirius Black . . . when I deliver you, I won't have to work under Rosier or anyone else. The Dark Lord will see to that."

Sirius pushed himself off of the ground. "Voldemort won't give you a damn thing, you fool."

"Won't he?" the Death Eater replied, mere feet away from his prey and still coming.

"No," growled Sirius. He raised his wand in a flash and buried it in his attacker's chest.

The Death Eater's eyes widened with surprise, and he stared down at Sirius's wand.  
Smoke rose from the wood. The flesh around the wound rapidly turned black. The man dropped to his knees as Sirius stood unsteadily.

"Not a damn thing," Sirius breathed heavily, gripping his wand's handle and twisting it free.

The Death Eater gasped painfully. His hand automatically rose to cover the hold in his chest. Thick blood gushed out between his fingers, and he tipped backwards, collapsing onto the ground.

Sirius sneered down at the prone figure. He felt like he should say something biting and clever, but all he could muster was distain. Besides, "I told you so" seemed to pale in comparison to having a wooden stick shoved through your lungs.

Sirius turned around and resumed his trek back up the gravel path. He had to be sure that Mark had gotten away.

After ten painful minutes, he approached his original hiding spot. He didn't see anyone.

He stiffly investigated the field on the other side the fence. Lestrange was gone. There was no sign of Rosier or Mark.

A feeling of dread stole over Sirius, smothering his physical pain. If something happened to Mark . . .

"Mark?" he called.

There was no response.

"Damn it, Mark! Come out!"

Only silence answered his calls.

Sirius spent the next two hours scouring the park, searching for a sign of Mark. His leg lost feeling about forty minutes in, and the tight cloth he had ripped from one of the fallen Death Eater's robes to wrap around the wounds in his chest was soaked through twice over with blood.

Eventually he began to believe his initial nightmare: Mark had been taken.

Sirius debated showing up at Order headquarters and notifying them of what had happened, but he dismissed the idea. They would make a fuss about him leaving his flat, delaying the search for Mark.

He had to go home. From there, he could send a message. Once notified, the Order would do something immediately without all of the awkward questions about how Mark had gotten the idea to go to the park in the first place.

Sirius's stomach turned sour. If he hadn't mentioned Hyde Park . . . if he hadn't been so anxious to feel involved . . .

Guilt later. Rescue now.

Sirius painfully summoned what energy he had left and Apparated back to the alley next to his flat. He limped slowly down the stairs and through his door.

A Patronus would be the quickest way to notify headquarters, but Sirius doubted whether he would have the strength to conjure one or not.

He tried anyway.

The spell took all of his strength. As he fell lifelessly onto the sofa, his silvery dog waited loyally at his feet.

"Mark Mahan has been taken by Rosier. Find him."

With a wave of his wand, he sent the silvery image flying out the door.

Now all he could do was wait . . . again.

--

"Damn, Sirius, what happened to you?"

Sirius woke up for the second time that night to someone speaking to him. This time, the voice seemed distant—faint.

He let his eyes stay shut. They were dry and scratchy. His body was aching so much, he was shaking. He felt too weak to even respond to his mystery visitor.

"Sirius? Can you hear me?"

He wheezed in reply.

"You've lost a lot of blood. I'm going to try to heal you. Stay still."

Not a problem, Sirius thought.

He would have yelled with pain when his guest moved his arms away from his chest, but he couldn't summon the energy.

Sirius couldn't make out what the mysterious visitor incanted, but his chest stopped burning and his aches seemed days old. He managed to force his eyelids up.

Remus was staring worriedly at him.

"Remus . . ."

"Don't try to speak, old friend. Drink this."

He extended a large glass. Sirius drank it sloppily, spilling half of it down his newly healed chest. The liquid burned as it trickled down his throat.

As the warmth of the potion spread through his body, he felt slightly revived. Revived enough to speak, anyway.

"Did—did you find him?"

Remus dropped his head. His voice was hollow when he spoke. "Sirius . . . by the time we found him . . . I don't know what Rosier wanted with him . . . but . . ."

Sirius's heart forgot to beat. He waiting in agony for Remus to finish, knowing what he was going to say, yet hoping—a faint glimmer of hoping—that by some miracle, Mark was alive. Damaged, near dead, missing an arm—anything, as long as he was alive.

"Tell me," Sirius managed to gasp.

Remus swallowed hard and continued staring at the floor. "He's gone, Sirius."

Sirius rejected the apparent meaning of the statement. "I know. I told you he was gone. But is he alive?"

"You don't understand, Sirius—Mark's dead."

The force of Remus's words knocked all of the air out of Sirius's lungs. He faintly heard Remus calling to him, but he didn't respond.

Various visions of Mark's broken body sped through Sirius's mind.

Dead . . . Mark was dead . . .

. . . and it was Sirius's fault.

--

To be continued . . .

So . . . what did you guys think? Review!

And I promise it won't be as long before I post the next chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

Hello, friends. I know, it's been an inexcusable amount of time since I have posted. Summer got very busy all of a sudden. However, here I am, and the next chapter won't be too far behind.

Again, reviews are greatly appreciated. Please enjoy.

--

**Chapter 10: Fight or Flight**

--

"Eleanor . . .?"

The voiced called to Eleanor from a world away, trying to force itself through the fog encircling her. She instinctively recoiled from the possible human contact.

Her mind was picking up where Sirius's narration had left off. She remembered it clearly; she had arrived with Remus to the Order headquarters. No one was there except for Molly, who told them that Mark was missing. Eleanor and Remus had left that stupid girl—Arola?—there and joined the search party. She was soon sent home by overly concerned friends and had spent the remainder of the night pacing. And then Remus had come.

"Eleanor?"

Eleanor's mind was ticking in at 200 kilometers an hour. Her imagination was in overdrive, trying to process the emotions teeming through her head. She imagined that she was teetering on the edge of a black chasm. The despair she had felt the night Mark died, that she had pushed back for years, was threatening to engulf her.

Wet drops fell onto her cheeks. She put a hand up to the tears. Where they hers?

Eleanor looked up to see if anyone else was close enough to her to claim the tears as their own. No one was. The only other person in the room was Sirius, who was still in the chair opposite her own, palely staring at her.

He tentatively reached a hand out to her, but she leaned away from him. She refused to be comforted, especially by him.

She soon discovered that the leather chair into which her face was smashed was quite comfortable. Granted, it was a little slick, but it was comfortable.

Awareness of her surroundings snuck through her insistent shroud. Books . . . she was in a library. Ah, yes. She remembered storming in here. Oh, look. There was the wet spot on the rug where she had stood over Sirius, allowing the river of rainwater to pour off of her as she had yelled at him.

Eleanor fought fiercely to remain wallowing in her sadness, but the warmth of the stacked shelves refused to let her.

She darted a surreptitious glance to Sirius. The prick of satisfaction she felt at the sight of his head resting gravely in his hands alarmed her.

She was actually _happy_ that he was unhappy.

She was a monster.

Eleanor surged to her feet in a panic. The man was driving her crazy. She had to get out.

She turned on her heel and found herself hobbling stiffly to the door. Only now was it hitting her that she had walked for _miles_ in the rain and that dried out jeans made it impossible to exit an awkward situation gracefully.

It felt like her thighs were encased in plaster. One of her pant legs actually creaked as she made her way to the thick, oak door.

Sirius's head snapped up so quickly at the sound that Eleanor heard it rebound off the back of his chair from her position near the door.

"Eleanor?" he said again, unable to keep a shred of hope from creeping into his hoarse voice.

Damn. There were only a few steps left! Eleanor paused, took a deep breath, and . . . could think of nothing to say. The air in her lungs wheezed out, as if trying to prompt her to speech, but her vocal cords remained unmoved.

It escaped as a rather pathetic, dramatic, heart-wrenching sigh.

How embarrassing.

Eleanor heard Sirius stand up behind her.

Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or . . .

Her feet took off with a healthy stride—well, as healthy as could be managed under the circumstances. Flight it was.

She stiffly twisted the doorknob and wobbled out. These rigid jeans were ridiculous. Eleanor quickly scanned through the list of household spells she had accumulated over the years. None of them could fix these bloody jeans unless she took them off, which clearly isn't an option when one is trying to escape.

She reached the first landing successfully . . . only to hear Sirius call her name again from the library door.

_When is it going to hit you that calling my name does no good, Sherlock_! she thought viciously, ignoring him and making her way down the second flight of stairs to the foyer.

She successfully reached the bottom as Sirius started on the second flight.

"Eleanor, is that you?" called a voice from the kitchen, but Eleanor merely winced at the doorway. She turned slowly—her cardboard-like jeans refused anything other than snail-like movements—and teetered to the front door.

"Damn it, Elle, stop! Talk to me!" Sirius leapt over the last few stairs and grabbed Eleanor's arm before she had made it more than a few steps to the door. He spun her around to face him.

Eleanor braced herself. She didn't know what was coming, but she didn't want to deal with it. That's what it came down to. Yes, she had asked for an explanation, but now that she had it, she flat out didn't want to deal with it.

She squashed the not so quiet voice in her head that insisted, _That's not fair to Sirius_.

_Oh, who bloody cares what's fair to Sirius and what's not?_ she demanded petulantly of herself.

_You do_.

_Do not_.

"Elle! Answer me. Please."

Eleanor flared her nose, an old habit that generally gave it away when she was feeling insecure. She hadn't heard the question, but she could guess what it was.

"Sirius . . ." Her voice cracked and tapered off into a squeak. She suddenly realized that she hadn't spoken since before Sirius had started his retelling.

Eleanor cleared her throat and tried again. "Sirius, I don't know what to say." There. She'd gotten a sentence out. Baby steps.

Sirius tightened his grip on her arm and frowned. "Try," he demanded. His eyes burned with a peculiar light. It was hypnotic.

Eleanor wrenched her gaze away and looked down the passageway . . . to the open kitchen door. Oh, God.

_They can hear us_, she mouthed to Sirius.

He flinched.

They stood awkwardly in the hallway, each unsure of what to do next. Sirius could hardly press her for a reaction when he knew the crowd in the kitchen was holding their breath, listening just out of sight.

Eleanor, of course, wanted to avoid a dialogue of any kind with Sirius. Especially since his grip on her arm was tighter than ever, affecting her thinking as well as the blood-flow to her hand.

Sirius sighed heavily, and Eleanor turned her attention back to him. He looked haggard, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "Upstairs?" he asked in a low growl.

Eleanor gave a small frown and shook her head. If she went back upstairs, they'd end up in a long talk about their _feelings_, which she was anxious to avoid at all costs. Besides, it would be harder to escape later when the house began filling up with Order members as it inevitably did in the evening. "No. Outside?" she whispered in return.

It was Sirius's turn to shake his head. "I can't leave."

A small blossom of hope budded among the swarm of emotions in Eleanor's chest. Maybe she could get out of this.

In an instant, she pictured herself free from the complications the last few days had arisen. Could you "give notice" to the Order of the Phoenix? She could go back to Oman and happily spend the rest of her days digging through artifacts, free from Sirius, Voldemort, and ghosts from the past.

Her dreaming was abruptly cut off when Sirius stepped closer to her. Eleanor's shoulders immediately tensed to the point of pain.

Sirius leaned down the few inches he boasted over her to whisper in her ear. "You asked for the truth, and I gave it to you. Now I'm just asking for a reaction, not a fight."

Eleanor swallowed loudly. She could feel Sirius smirk just above her shoulder. Damn that man; he was so infuriating! Eleanor knew that she owed him. The story of Mark's death had been hard enough for her to hear, and she could imagine how difficult it was for Sirius to relive it.

A shred of sympathy bubbled in her mind, breaking through the wall of hatred she had built around Sirius.

Oh no. No! This man killed her brother. Well, got her brother killed. Well, provided the information that her brother used to get himself killed. Well . . .

Eleanor mentally slapped her own face. No more "wells."

"I've got to get out of here," she mumbled.

Did he have to stand so close to her?

"Eleanor, you owe me," he growled. "Don't even think about walking out on me now."

"Why are you so desperate to talk about this?" she snapped.

"I—" Sirius stopped, the words getting stuck in his throat. "Because—"

Eleanor couldn't help herself. "Yes?" she prompted.

"We just need to talk," he concluded lamely.

Suddenly, Eleanor understood.

"Oh. My. God."

Sirius pulled his head away from her ear to stare at her face. She flushed hotly, but refused to back down.

"I can't _believe _it."

"What?" he asked warily.

"It makes sense now. When you agreed to tell me, I didn't ask, but _now_ it makes sense. Are you serious?" Her voice was rising, but she didn't care. Let the whole damn neighborhood hear her if they wanted to. She let the flood gates up on her emotions and channeled them into her outrage.

"Eleanor, what are you talking about?"

"You are unbelievable," she quavered, gaining confidence in her partially unfounded outrage.

"Damn it, just tell me!" Sirius was visibly frustrated now.

Eleanor waited a beat before continuing, just to torture him.

During that beat, though, they heard a "What did he do _now_?" escape from the kitchen.

"You want me to forgive you!" she exclaimed, half triumphant, half horrified.

Sirius opened his mouth furious—and snapped it shut again. He thought for a minute. "So?" he eventually responded.

"W-what?" Eleanor stammered. She had been expecting a few protestations at least. It was Sirius, after all. He took nothing lying down, least of all an accusation of weakness.

"So? What if I do want your forgiveness?"

Eleanor stared hotly at him. He was just going to cave like that? That was cheating. Well, she didn't know what game he was playing, but she was not letting him win.

"Well, you can't have it."

He nodded slowly. "Fine. But don't ask me to do anything else for you."

"Fine."

"Good."

Eleanor glared defiantly at him. He stared stonily back.

"Anything else?" she bit off.

"No," he responded coolly. "You got what you came for."

Eleanor ignored the twinge in her conscience. She deserved to know. He was just being childish.

"Fine. I'll go."

"Fine."

"Good."

Eleanor rolled her eyes and turned back to the door. Before she could resume her hobbling, though, she noticed the three figures standing in the foyer: a short girl with bubblegum pink hair, Mad-Eye Moody, and Remus.

Her face burned with embarrassment. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded to no one in particular.

Remus spoke for the group. "Well, you seemed busy. I would have been rude to interrupt."

"Buy a TV," she barked, resuming her dilapidated walk to the door.

"You might want to sit that teetering arse of yours down, you bone-digging bore," rasped Mad-Eye as Eleanor came abreast of him.

"Hello to you, too, Moody," Eleanor sighed wearily.

"What, you're not going to give an old friend the satisfaction of asking why?" he continued.

"Not tonight, Mad-Eye."

"What about a hug then?"

Eleanor started in surprise. "A _hug_?"

The bubblegum head shared Eleanor's shock. "Hug! You going soft on us, Mad-Eye?"

"Keep it down, girl. When you save my life four times, you can hug me all you like."

Eleanor obligingly gave Mad-Eye a light hug.

The short girl, bobbed over his shoulder in Eleanor's eye line. "You must be Eleanor. It's brilliant to meet you. I've heard a lot about you already. I'm Tonks, by the way. Are you coming with us tonight?"

"No, she's not," supplied Remus.

Eleanor broke her hug to Moody. "Coming where?"

"Nowhere," Remus responded.

"To get Harry from his aunt and uncle's. He got in a spot of trouble. Dementor attack or something," the girl—Tonks—eagerly answered.

Mad-Eye growled, "Girl's a bloody security threat."

"What, I'm not allowed to know Order plans?" asked Eleanor, only half joking. Dementor attack? She raised her eyebrows at Remus, indicating that he had better have a bloody good answer or else.

Remus sighed heavily. "You are, but we're just trying to limit the amount of people we take. This is supposed to be a covert mission. You'll be filled in along with the rest of the Order at the briefing."

"Well, Eleanor was just leaving," added Sirius, who had crept up to the group while the chaotic introductions and greetings were being made.

"You were?" Tonks asked, visibly disappointed. "I thought you'd want to stay around, see Harry, and stuff. Oh, and the briefing tonight while we're getting him. Mandatory."

"I—" Eleanor was really trapped now. The briefing was mandatory and it was her first since coming back, but that would mean staying here . . . with Sirius.

Sirius saved her the necessity of answering by saying—dryly, Eleanor noticed—"I doubt she'll be able to make it. There's a pot somewhere desperately in need of dusting."

"So funny, Siri—" Eleanor stopped. Damn it! She had totally forgotten about the urn! "I have to go," she said hastily, rushing to the door—well, hobbling. Her jeans were unforgiving. Thankfully, she was calm enough now to Apparate, so she would be home as soon as these bloody people got out of her way.

"What's going on?" asked Remus.

"Nothing. Just a professional matter. I'll come by tomorrow if you like." She would have promised to bring brownies, too, if it got her out of there.

"Be back for the briefing! Seven," reminded Remus.

"Don't bother," Sirius called as Eleanor reached for the door. He turned to Sirius and added, "I warned you. What use is an archeologist going to be in a war?"

Eleanor turned and smiled. "About as useful as a convict in hiding." And she snapped the door closed.

--

"Where the hell have you been?!"

Eleanor cringed as her sister's outrage lashed out. "Um . . . on a walk."

She sped past the kitchen where Mysti was cutting fruit. Great. She had a knife.

Mysti stomped out of the kitchen and followed Eleanor across the room—thankfully, she left the knife behind her. "A walk? That's all the bloody information you're going to give me after disappearing into a damn rainstorm and not dropping a damn line all day?"

"I lost track of time."

"Was the sudden appearance of night your first clue?"

Eleanor waddled to her make-shift dresser by the bookshelves and selected a pair of sweats. "Sorry, Myst. I just needed to clear my head."

"For seven hours?"

"I had a lot to clear." She awkwardly yanked her stiff jeans off and slipped into the sweats. "Did a letter arrive for me?"

"It's on the coffee table. Where did you go?"

Eleanor hurried to the table and snatched up the beaten letter. "Huh?" she grunted disinterestedly, tearing the letter open.

It was from Archie.

"I said, where did you go? God, Eleanor, what the hell are you playing at? You show up on my doorstep with an army of trunks, invade my living room, storm out in the middle of a very serious discussion . . . have you really been alone in the desert _that_ long?"

The letter was surprisingly short.

_Ellie,_

_The inscription is a spell. Do not read it aloud. Do not let anyone read it aloud._

"_Clay from Apsu's dark domain_

_This glassy oracle sustain._

_Distinguish the one from chaos entwined;_

_Open a gate to share his mind."_

_I believe that wiith this spell, a wizard can access anyone's mind. It can be used for mind control as well as extracting information. On the bright side, old girl, it would seem that the caster must have the urn in hand or something. Not sure on the details as yet._

_It pains me to suggest it, but try to destroy the urn. If you can't . . . well, do something._

_Archie_

At least the letter lacked most of his usual buffoonery.

"Elle, are you even listening to me?"

Eleanor dropped the letter onto the table. Her sister's irate voice was muffled by the pounding in her ears. She looked at the urn, innocently gathering dust on the table. If anyone—if Voldemort got his hands on this . . .

The thought didn't need to be finished.

Eleanor picked the urn up delicately. It seems so harmless. How to destroy it?

Mysti was getting increasingly anxious. "I am not feeding you tonight unless you talk to me, Elle."

Eleanor could either destroy the urn with a hammer (but that was too messy) or she could simply drop it from the balcony. Mysti's apartment was six floors up, so the chance that the delicate pot would survive the fall was slim.

She stifled a regretful sigh as she walked the plain urn over to the balcony.

"Elle!" Mysti snatched her sister's arm and dug her nails in. "Talk to me right now," she hissed, slapping the urn from Eleanor's hands.

It tumbled inelegantly to the floor and clattered loudly on the tiles, but it remained intact.

Eleanor stared at it, unfocused fear shimmering into life in her mind.

Mysti sighed with relief. "Oh, I would have died if it had broken."

Eleanor scooped it up and turned to face her sister's wrath. "Don't worry about it, Myst. I'm throwing it out the window anyway."

Mysti looked at her sister in confusion. "Out the window," she said flatly.

"You'll thank me for it later." Eleanor resumed her march to the balcony. Once outside, she hung the urn over the side of the building, took at deep breath, asked forgiveness from the Archeology Gods, and dropped the priceless artifact six floors to its doom.

It clattered ominously against the rough asphalt—and didn't break.

"Damn it!" Eleanor snarled, angrier at herself than anything else, and whirled away from the edge to sprint back through the apartment.

As she reached the door, Mysti's brain seemed to catch up. "Thank you how?" she called after her sister, who was pounding down the stairs as fast as she could.

She needed to get the urn. How stupid was she, to think that she dropping it out of a window, into a London alley, was good idea. After all, it had remained unscathed for thousands of years in the desert. She definitely should have gone with the hammer.

All she could think was that the urn was lying unprotected on the street. She was supposed to be a bloody professional, not a panicked child trying to get rid of a brandy bottle before her parents caught her.

Eleanor burst from the building's doors in a flurry of discarded newspapers. She rounded the corner to the alleyway below her sister's balcony only to find it empty of anything but yellowed Chinese cartons.

The urn was gone.

--

"That _bloody_ woman!"

"You said that already," Remus said patiently.

"Do you have any idea what she did to me today?" Sirius hissed, turning his back on the recently slammed front door.

Mad-Eye fixed him with a one-eyed frown. "You been moping around all day again?"

"Stay out of it, Mad-Eye," snapped Sirius.

Mad-Eye's eye widened with surprise while his other one whizzed somewhere in the back of his skull. Tonks, noticing the steam boiling under the wizened wizard's surface, started to pull him away from the foyer toward the kitchen.

Sirius turned his attention back to his friend. "Do you have _any_ idea, Moony?"

Remus sighed. "I believe I can guess."

"Betrayal!" exploded Sirius. "That's really what it comes down to. The flamin' proverbial knife in the back!"

"You should be used to it by now. Look, we have more pressing matters than your and Eleanor's latest spat. Like the imminent retrieval of your godson."

"'As useful as a convict?'" Sirius fumed, following Remus toward the kitchen.

"I believe she said, 'as a convict in hiding,'" supplied Tonks helpfully, only a few feet ahead of them, still struggling with Mad-Eye.

"Thanks, Tonks." Sirius snarled silently at her retreating back.

"Calm down, Sirius," Remus said soothingly. "You're still adjusting."

Sirius stopped, grabbing Remus's arm to indicated that he should do the same. He waited for Tonks and Mad-Eye to disappear into the kitchen before speaking.

"No, I'm not. I'm all adjusted. How the hell long is she staying, Remus?"

Remus kneaded his forehead with the heel of his hand. "She's staying, Sirius."

"How long?"

"I don't know!" Remus burst in hushed tones. "Until Voldemort is gone, until the wizarding world isn't about to implode, until she bloody well feels like leaving. She's not a seventeen-year-old fresh out of Hogwarts anymore, and neither are you. Something you would do well to remember."

Sirius chewed his lower lip furiously. "That's the way it is?"

"Yeah. There's nothing either one of us can do about it. And to be honest, this petulant child thing is getting old. Get. Over. It." Remus turned his back on his friend and stormed into the dimly lit kitchen.

Sirius clenched and unclenched his fists. "She's bloody rubbing off on all of them. Life would be a hell of a lot better if I was in bloody Tibet like I'm supposed to be," he muttered before following the troupe into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

--

Sirius was fidgeting again, earning him a disapproving look from Molly. He took a deep breath and schooled himself back into stillness.

The meeting was going nowhere. Dumbledore was insisting on reviewing security measures for the Department of Mysteries, a topic that irritated Sirius at the best of times. (Snape stared oily at him with an eyebrow cocked every time for the duration of the discussion.

Of course, the hot topic tonight was the dementor attack. Dumbledore had tried to assure the anxious members that he had the situation under control, but pessimists like McGonagall insisted on revisiting the topic.

She (or someone similar) would interrupt a momentary silence with a simple, "Harry's hearing—will it go our way?"

Dumbledore would smile patiently, if a little wearily. "Since I've been removed from any official standing in the Ministry, I believe the system shall have to judge on its own. The situation is bleak, and yet we have weathered worse than this."

Then, another enlightened servant, such as Molly, would rejoin (while pointedly staring at Mundungus), "We wouldn't have to weather this if someone was doing their job."

Mundungus—on cue—would throw up his hands. "It was a bloody business opportunity. I don't meddle in your house cleanery, do I, woman?"

Molly then would swell with indignation. "How _dare_ you speak to me like that, you delinquent—"

And they were off.

Sirius couldn't focus. His thoughts bounced between Harry and Eleanor, hoping the one would arrive safe and the other would never come back.

His musings were interrupted by Dumbledore, unexpectedly asking him, "Sirius, do you happen to know why Eleanor is not with us this evening?"

The silence that followed was thick and awkward.

Finally, Sirius choked out, "I think she had to see to something."

"Yes, _something_ certainly caused her to abruptly leave earlier," Molly supplied scathingly.

"Oh, really," drawled Snape, speaking for the first time since he gave his report two hours ago.

A memory of jealous coursed through Sirius's heart. "I don't believe Eleanor's schedule is any of your business, Snape."

Snape's mouth twitched upward, reveling in the power of his goading. "I am deprived to seeing an old friend, Black. I'm merely curious as to why."

"I don't believe it matters much. She'll likely be here next time." Sirius sat on his hands, preventing them from fidgeting away his cover.

"You mean you don't know? Tsk," chided Snape.

Sirius's hands gripped the edge of his chair. "No," he growled tightly.

Snape's thin smile widened. "Women, eh, Black? Irrationally unforgiving of their brother's murderers, aren't they?"

Sirius was standing before he realized it.

"Sirius," warned Arthur, also rising.

"Burn in hell," Sirius snarled.

Snape glared insolently up at Sirius.

The front door opening and closing echoed through the house.

Molly jumped to her feet. "That'll be Harry. I'll take care of this."

Snape broke his gaze, fixating it instead on the wooden table. Sirius felt a soothing hand on his shoulder. He glanced at its origin. Dumbledore was watching him sympathetically.

Sirius broke the gaze and sat back down, allowing silence to rule the kitchen.

The door opened, and Harry's guard marched in.

Dumbledore addressed them as soon as the door was firmly shut behind them. "Did it go well?"

Mad-Eye responded first. "Give them a few minutes to catch up, and we'll see."

Tonks rolled her eyes. "We doubled back more times than an Irish country road, Moody!"

Remus stepped forward. "It went well. Harry's depositing his things upstairs."

Dumbledore nodded. "Then I should be leaving." He bowed formally to the room before sweeping out of it.

The Order members who had cheerier places to spend their nights left in his wake. Snape was the last to leave, sending a sneer specifically to Sirius. "Do give my warm regards to Eleanor, Black. She was always such a dear friend."

Before Sirius could retort, Snape was gone. Sirius collapsed heavily into his chair.

Remus patted him supportively.

"Remus," Sirius sighed softly, "was it only last week that I complained of monotony?"

"I believe so, old friend."

"Well, I take it back."

"As would I."

Sirius nodded and waited for his godson.

--

Eleanor hesitated only briefly before pushing open the door to number twelve Grimmauld Place. She knew what kind of reception was waiting for her, but the missing urn took precedence over her personal squabbles.

As usual, the elf-lined hallway was deserted. Eleanor made a beeline for the kitchen. How appropriate it was that in Sirius's house, the kitchen was the hub of social interaction.

She heard voices—mainly male—coming from the dimly lit doorway.

Any other day, she would have stopped and eavesdropped, but the imminent mind-control of London's inhabitants made her a little hasty.

She pushed the door of the kitchen open and stepped in.

Sirius looked up at her from the end of the table, directly opposite her position by the entrance. His smiling face imploded.

"Oh, God, no," he groaned.

On cue, every head in the room turned to examine the newcomer. She almost heard a snicker from one of the twins, but they thought better of it.

She took a deep breath to respond, but held it. "No time," she eventually snapped. "We have a crisis."

"Something bigger than the Dark Lord sending dementors to attack my godson?" Sirius responded archly.

"Way bigger," she shot back reflexively . . . and paused. "Your . . . your godson?"

Sirius smiled, and Eleanor saw the first vestiges of the old Sirius. He clapped his hand to a young, dark-haired teenager's shoulder. The boy was tall and thin, as if riding a growth spurt. His dark hair was tousled and his green eyes curious.

Eleanor's stomach swooped and threatened to unleash a day's worth of empty calories on the stone floor.

"Oh. Harry," she breathed, words abandoning her.

Sirius continued, "In fact, now's as good a time as any to introduce you two. Harry, Eleanor Mahan. Elle, meet your long lost godson."

--

Hope you liked it! Review!!


	11. Chapter 11

Long time, eh? I'm pretty sure no one is still reading this, but I needed a distraction during finals, and so I picked up my narrative. It's been . . . wow, almost 2 years. Anyway, I don't own Harry Potter, and it's been so long, I'm not sure I even own this anymore, but I'm chancing it.

--

Eleanor was rooted to the dingy cobblestone floor. Her eyes were fixed on the boy latched under Sirius's grasp. His hair was jet black and messy, as if his fingers were his only comb. His face was thin, but smile lines toyed with his mouth and battled the beginnings of worry lines on his forehead. He had the beginnings of good looks, and his eyes would vault him into the elusive "mysterious" category. Those eyes. Eleanor was entranced by Lily's eyes staring at her from this boy's face. She was bombarded with memories of Lily whispering confidences to her in their Gryffindor dormitory, of Lily patiently helping her finish a Charms assignment because Eleanor had been too busy daydreaming, of Lily terrified when she found out she was pregnant because of the world she would be birthing her son into, of Lily embracing her as a sister when she saw the engagement ring . . .

Eleanor's heart swelling, forcing hot tears from her eyes. She had cried too much in recent days, and she was shocked that there was any moisture left. Harry . . .

"Godson?" Harry repeated, dumbstruck. He stared from Sirius's solemn face to Eleanor's stricken one. "So that makes you . . ." His eyes fixed on Eleanor.

She remained silent. She couldn't force any sound out of her closed throat. _Damn you, Sirius!_ Fourteen years of birthday wishes, comforting talks, questions, and stories lodged in her throat. She was suffocating, and still she couldn't cry for help.

Sirius picked up the dangling thread of conversation. "Yes, Harry, godson. Eleanor was your mum's best friend. Sister, almost. As close as your dad and I were. She's your godmother. She has been since you were born."

Harry still stared. "No one has told me anything about a godmother." Silence reigned. Eleanor could feel people shifting around the rough wooden table. She could see Arthur and Molly as they were close to her and staring at her with obvious concern, but the other figures in the tableau blurred, making the vision of Harry sharper and even more cutting.

Harry cleared his throat and, eyes still locked on Eleanor's, repeated, "Godmother? But . . . I've never . . . where . . . were you in prison, too?" he finished lamely.

"No, she wasn't, Harry," Sirius supplied.

Eleanor shifted her gaze to him. God, he was loving this. She had made him hurt, obviously more than she had guessed, so now he was returning the favor. Whereas he had fourteen years of solitary to mull over his pain, she was being forced to confront hers with no time, no plan, and no explanation. Sirius stared stonily back at her. Bastard!

"Then why haven't I met you?" Harry asked, a trickle of venom in his voice. "Why didn't I know about you? Why didn't you find me?" His voice was rising with hysteria.

Eleanor looked beseechingly at the other occupants of the room, all of whom where staring down their mugs of tea. Her eyes met the tops of four redheaded teenagers and a bushy brunette. Molly and Arthur, too, averted their eyes, though Eleanor interpreted this as a failed attempt to provide some privacy. She looked at Sirius. She looked anywhere except at Lily's hurt eyes.

"Sirius . . . he was in prison," Harry continued, gathering momentum. "He was accused of murder. He was tortured. You . . . where were _you_?" he ended bitterly.

Molly stood up. "That's enough, Harry. Sirius, how _dare_ you?" She stormed over to Eleanor and put an arm around her. Eleanor sagged against the motherly warmth from the other woman. Her knees buckled and she fell into Molly's arms, tears spilling down her cheeks, into her mouth, off of her face, down her neck, and into the soft fabric of her shirt, but still her voice battled itself into silence. "You know Eleanor couldn't help it. You know, Sirius."

"Stay out of this, Molly," Sirius began, righteous indignation flushing his face.

"How dare _Sirius_?" shouted Harry. "Who is this? Who are you? If you're my godmother, why don't I know you? If you're supposed to take care of me, why did I live in a cupboard all my life?"

Hermione lifted her eyes and whispered, "Harry, we don't know--"

"SHUT UP, HERMIONE!" Harry yelled. He faced back to Eleanor. "Go away. I have enough to deal with without . . . some . . . absentee godmother."

Molly clutched Eleanor's arm protectively. "Harry, you don't know what you're saying. You're tired, and you're upset, and you don't know the whole story."

"I don't need to," Harry said stiffly.

Hermione tried again, obvious skittish around her friend. "Harry, I'm sure there's good reason . . ." She trailed off under his fiery glare. One of the Weasley boys--Eleanor thought his name was Ron--put an arm around her. Eleanor smiled softly. It was such a small, affectionate gesture despite the heavy awkward tension and rampaging anger that infused the kitchen.

Harry turned his scowl back to Eleanor. "Why are you here?"

Eleanor forced the lump down her throat where it settled merrily in her stomach. She was an adult. She had survived death, horror, terror, heartbreak, and breakdowns. She wasn't going to be bullied by a kid, even in the crushing guilt and insecurity killed her.

"Harry . . ." That didn't last long. Her voice gave out, and she stared silently into his disdainful face. Lily's disdainful face. No, not Lily. James. James's face with Lily's eyes. Eleanor shook her head slightly. _See James_, she commanded. James she could be mad at. There it was. The haughty tilt of his chin, the unkempt coal black hair, the straight nose, and strong mouth. Eleanor straightened.

"You were saying?" Harry angrily demanded.

Eleanor met him stare for stare. "I am here because I am a member of the Order of the Phoenix, godmother or not, and though this might not be enough to warrant your respect," she bit off, "I am still several years your senior and you will respect me, _boy_."

Hermione gasped. God, the girl was dramatic. Ron's eyes were wide, too, and he was darted glances between Harry and Eleanor, facing each other down. Ginny, Fred, and George were all glued to the scene before them. Sirius smirked and tightened his grip on Harry's shoulder. Molly, too, tightened her grip, and Eleanor could feel her maternal good intentions bruising her arm.

_Deep breaths, Eleanor._ She crushed the twinge she felt over using "boy" to silence Harry, but she didn't have time to explain. "There will be time for my excuses and your apologies later, Harry, but for now, there are far more important issues that need to be addressed." Like a magical urn with a powerful possession spell that could grant a wizard--Voldemort, for example--access to anyone's mind. "Sit."

Harry resolutely stood his ground. Lupin reached out a hand, and added his own, "Harry, please sit down. We can discuss this as much as you'd like, but there is no need for us be uncomfortable."

Sirius barked a laugh. "Uncomfortable? We're in an over-sized, molding coffin with a dark wizard slowly suffocating us and unwanted civilians tromping around like they belong here. I think that comfortable a little unrealistic, Remus, don't you? Besides, Harry has every right to demand some answers."

"From us all," Remus rejoined with a pointed stare. Sirius met his gaze a little uncertainly. Eleanor could feel his fear, and she herself wondered if Remus would really stoop low enough to black ball Sirius in an effort to defend her.

Harry laughed bitterly. "Answers? No one is giving me answers!"

Arthur opened his mouth, but Remus interjected. "Harry, you will have answers eventually, but we are not at liberty to divulge everything. Sit down."

"No."

Remus directed his arched eyebrow to Sirius, who hesitated only momentarily before saying, "Harry, sit down."

Harry shot him a surprised look, but even more surprisingly, took a seat at the table. Eleanor almost envied that simple display of trust. How long had it been since she had trusted anyone? The self pitying answer of "fourteen years" resounded in her head. Eleanor ignored it and watched as Hermione reached a comforting hand out, but Harry ignored it and scowled with folded arms at the pitted table top.

Remus rose from his own seat and beckoned for Sirius to follow him to the door. Sirius gave Harry a reassuring squeeze and, eyes locked on Remus's retreating back, made his way slowly across the stone floor. He passed Eleanor by without a glance. Remus stopped just outside of the door, and began whispering intensely to Sirius when he caught up. Eleanor could barely hear their conversation, and pretended to hear none of it.

"You're making this worse for yourself Sirius. Harry will be leaving for Hogwarts soon enough, and adding Eleanor to his list of complaints is hardly going to help."

"Harry has been expelled, or have you forgotten?" Sirius hissed back.

"Dumbledore will sort the Ministry out."

"Dumbledore is the one refusing to give him answers about Voldemort, so we can at least give him some about Eleanor."

Remus continued in a calm voice. "Answers about Eleanor will raise questions that I don't think you want answered, Sirius. Think about this first. Stop letting your bloody . . ." He took a deep breath and continued, "Don't let your past ruin everything you've built over the last year."

"And what have I built, Remus? Nothing."

"You've built a relationship with Harry. One that neither you nor he can live without. I know you, friend, and I know Harry is the most important thing in your life. I also know that he is angry, confused, and scared. Do you think that dredging up the past is going to help him deal with any of that? If he finds out about Mark, do you think he will be understanding? Do you think he will take your side? He blames himself for Cedric Diggory's death--the death of a friend--and do you think that hearing about your own mistakes regarding your own friend is going to alleviate any of his guilt? You need to protect him now because he can't protect himself. This is Voldemort, not a school bully."

"No one has forgotten that," Sirius retorted, but his voice was less forceful. Eleanor hoped that Sirius would be reasonable. Not only did she want to explain herself to Harry in her own way, without the commentary from the peanut gallery, but she knew that Remus was right. Harry was obviously angry and scared, which was warping his world. He needed to be protected for his own good, and for the good of the world, if what she had guessed about the prophecy was true.

Harry's scowl remained unbroken as Sirius and Remus indulged in their hallway conference. Eleanor's guilt threatened to engulf her, but she squelched it. There was no time for regrets today. She locked eyes with her wayward godson and smiled. Mustering mystery courage from some unknown source, she smiled at him. "I know you don't believe me, but there are more important things than my absence and your lack of information. I assumed you of all people would realize that."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but never got the chance. Sirius and Remus reentered the room. Remus reclaimed his seat with a cursory glance at the rest of the table. Arthur was silently watching Sirius, as was Harry. Hermione and Ron, however, were watching their friend carefully, obviously unsure of what to say to break the tension in the room. Eleanor noted Ginny's concerned stare. Even Fred and George maintained their silence and Eleanor briefly wondered if this was the longest they had ever kept their mouths shut.

Remus nodded at Arthur, who picked up on the silent command immediately. "All right, I think we've had enough for tonight. Lads, Ginny, upstairs. You too, Ron. Hermione." His gaze softened at it landed on Harry. "Harry, I think we should pick this up in the morning. You've had a long night."

Surprisingly, the children all stood and filed out of the kitchen obediently. Harry was the last to go, but with an encouraging smile and a promise to talk tomorrow from Sirius, he followed the others upstairs.

Eleanor collapsed into Arthur's vacated chair and dropped her head onto the table. A definite buzzing was ringing in her ears, almost but not quite drowning out the explosion that followed the mass exit of the under 30 year olds.

"Sirius Black," screamed Molly, "how could you do that!?"

"He had a right to know who she was!" Sirius retorted.

"NOT like that! Dumbledore _told_ her--"

"I'm getting awfully sick of Dumbldore telling us all!"

"What does that mean?"

"It means what gives him the right?"

"Sirius!"

"Don't, Molly! What gives him the right to command us all?!" Sirius exploded.

"We do," Remus replied quietly.

Eleanor lifted her head blearily and looked at Remus. Sirius and Molly were standing at either side of the table, both staring down at Remus, who was staring at his hands. "We give Dumbledore the right. We gave him our trust a long time ago when we couldn't even trust each other, and now we have no one else." He shifted his attention to Eleanor. "I assume you didn't come back for the happy memories, Elle. What's wrong?"

Pushing the other problems aside (there would be ample time to brood over them later), Eleanor began her story. "The day before I came back, I found something . . ."


End file.
